


The Negotiator

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: AU, Alternate Universes, Angst, M/M, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 07:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 50,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A terrorist named Garrett Kincaid comes to Cascade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Negotiator

## The Negotiator

by Montserrat

Author's website:  <http://www.dextersworld.de/mindex.html>

The usual. Everything and everyone belongs to Pet Fly and Paramount or Sci-Fi, the story though is MINE so hands off!

My appreciation and heartfelt thanks goes to Ulalume, CallistaEcho and Vicki for their encouragement, support and occasional kick in the butt. 

AU story where Jim and Blair meet under very different circumstances. Please note the additional warning for violence. Some scenes might be disturbing.   
Be honest: Kincaid & Blair? Fascinating thought, ey?

* * *

The Negotiator  
by Montserrat 

Chapter One 

The wild staccato of gunfire penetrated the peaceful atmosphere at Cascade Savings Bank on Friday afternoon. A sales clerk, two customers and the security guard died on the scene - time of death 4.57 p.m., exactly three minutes before the start of a relaxing weekend. 

Life was cruel and so was Garret Kincaid. The terrorist smiled, satisfaction crossing his face and distorting it into a bizarre mask of evil and joy. His eyes turned cold at the barely suppressed moans of one of his men - wounded by the security guard's failed attempt to stop them. Kincaid's gaze shifted from his injured companion to the dead officer. 

"You sonofabitch!" Kincaid exclaimed, pointing his weapon at the dead body and emptying the magazine. The security guard's limp body jerked at the impact of the bullets, blood and tissues oozing out of numerous wounds. The face was gone. 

"That's better," Kincaid murmured, quickly re-charging his weapon. Looking around the bank, the man nodded at his hostages. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," he greeted them, almost friendly, like a host at a TV show. "My name is Garret Kincaid. We don't intend to harm anyone as long as we get what we want." The deadly smile flashed across his face again. "Well, okay, I admit it, that's a lie." 

Without blinking, he fired the gun again, killing an elderly man standing by the tellers. Turning, pointing and the terrified scream of a female employee accompanied her death. 

"Who's in charge here?!" Kincaid yelled, watching the remaining hostages. "Come on, come on... let's hear it." He waved the gun and instinctively a few people ducked, flinching at the insanity shining out of the mad man's eyes. 

"I'm the bank manager. My name is John McNeill," a gray-haired man in a tailored suit announced. He raised his hands in a surrendering gesture. "I can help you get what you want," he reassured, swallowing hard as the gun was directed to his chest. 

"You're right," Kincaid agree, the corners of his mouth twitching in a grin. He pulled the trigger. The bank manager stumbled backwards, staring in total disbelief at the blood on his white shirt. Then he collapsed. 

Another woman screamed out her terror as Garret Kincaid turned around. "Much better," he said. Looking at the hysterically screaming woman, he shook his head. "Shut up, bitch." He raised his gun in warning. The silence that followed was almost deafening. The woman stared at him, quivering with fear. 

"Men, let's get to work." Kincaid moved over where his fallen comrade was lying on the ground. Almost gently, the terrorist touched the man's face. "Let me see," he ordered, prying the clutching hands off the wound on the man's upper warm. Blood had already soaked through the shirt and jacket. 

The man moaned at the touch. "I'm fine, man," he managed through clenched teeth. 

Kincaid ripped a piece of cloth off the man's shirt and bandaged the wound. "Yes, you will be." 

The figure on the floor nodded and struggled to sit up. His stomach rebelled against the movement but he knew that Garret Kincaid didn't like weakness of any kind. Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself up and listened to his leader's announcement. 

* * *

He was losing his mind, going crazy, being totally fucked up. If he didn't do something now, he'd kill someone or himself or someone and himself. It had to stop. Right here, right now. 

Taking a deep breath to clear his head, Jim Ellison, Major Crimes Detective, former Army Ranger and sole survivor of a plane crash in Peru, knocked at the glass door of his superior's office. Without waiting for an invitation to enter, he pushed the door open. At the same moment he bumped into a woman. The perfume supplied the name, even before his eyes took in the slender body. 

"Whoa, did you spend the night in a dumpster, Jimmy?" Carolyn Plummer looked at him critically, her nose wrinkled in disgust at his appearance. 

The itching of clothes on his body started again. Ignoring his ex-wife's comment, Ellison squirmed slightly, seating himself opposite of Captain Banks' impressive desk. Behind him, the door closed. 

"Coffee, Jim?" the tall black man asked, indicating with the steaming pot. "My cousin sent me a new roast." Pouring himself a cup, Simon Banks quickly filled a second one. "Some kind of Guatemala Mocca, whatever, I don't know." He grinned. "It all tastes like Maxwell House to me." Walking over to the detective he offered the cup. 

Cigar smoke filled Ellison's nose and he fought not to cough. What was going on with him? He'd never taken offense at his captain's smoking passion. Now the smoke bit into his eyes and nose. It almost felt like it snaked its way through the airway down into his lungs. 'What is happening to me?' Jim thought frantically, almost panicking. 

"Jim?" Simon probed, seeing the detective's blank expression. The man looked indeed like he'd spent the night somewhere else - his clothes were wrinkled, a white shirt blinking from under his sweater. The unshaved face stared into space, seeming like a lost soul. "You okay?" 

At other times, a glance out of Jim Ellison's piercing blue eyes sent everyone into hiding but today those eyes were dull, lifeless. When Jim finally looked up, his voice was low, almost resigned. "I need a leave of absence," he announced without much ado. 

Banks chuckled, almost spilling his precious coffee. "Are you nuts?" he inquired bluntly. 

Jim shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe. At first I thought I'd been drugged but I came clean. Still..." He shrugged, not knowing how to explain himself. 

"What drugs?" Simon put his mug away, glancing at younger man. 

Jim shrugged again, a helpless gesture. "Everything's... out of control, Simon. I don't know how to explain it to you. My...body must have some kind of allergic reaction or something. I have no idea what it is. My skin itches like crazy, my eyes start watering from the cigar _shit_ you smoke and, this is not funny, my pants gimme a fuckin' hard-on when I sit down the wrong way." 

Banks had just opened his mouth to reply to the litany of words, when the phone disturbed their conversation. Not happy with the intrusion, Simon snatched the phone off its cradle. "Banks!" he bellowed, threatening everyone to come up with a reasonable explanation for the interruption. 

Jim closed his eyes and tilted his head against the back of his chair. He cringed in frustration when his senses played tricks on him again. Without straining he could clearly hear the voice on the other end of the line. 'Someone help me.' He pleaded silently, rubbing his forehead, and then he covered his ears with both hands. 'Please... make it stop!' To his horror, he could still follow the phone conversation. 

"... Cascade Savings Bank," Detective Henri Brown spoke. 

"How many hostages?" Simon asked, frowning at the sight of his distraught detective. 

"Unknown, sir. It was almost five o'clock when it happened and we have to assume that there were still a number of clients conducting their business." 

"Any word from the bank robbers yet?" Banks leaned forward to gently touch Jim's shoulder. He flinched back in surprise when Ellison jerked back as if he'd been hit by an electric current. 

"No, sir. We are trying to establish contact. So far we know that shots were fired but the number of injured or dead is still undetermined, sir." 

"Keep me posted, Brown," Simon ordered. "I'm on my way." Hanging up, the captain turned to Jim. 

"We got a hostage situation at Cascade Savings Bank. Shots were fired, but we don't know anything concrete yet," Banks informed, not knowing that he had just repeated the story Jim had already heard. Eyeing Jim suspiciously, he said, "I need you on this one, Jim." 

The detective stared at him wide-eyed. "I--I can't, Captain. You don't understand what's going on here. I'm a liability. I'm..." 'going crazy', Jim finished in his mind, hoping Banks would see his misery. 

Taking his coat off the rack, Simon shook his head. "I'm sorry, Jim, but this is a tough one from the sound of it." He shrugged into his coat. "I need you as my negotiator to take care of whatever scumbag is out there with those people." He paused taking in Ellison's ragged appearance. Then he sighed. "Don't make me order you." 

Jim rose to his full height. "If you don't grant me a vacation, I'll take one!" he promised. 

* * *

The phone rang, startling everyone except Kincaid. The terrorist looked at his watch. "Twenty-three minutes," he counted. "Took them long enough." The ringing continued but he made to attempt to pick up the phone. Instead he turned to his comrades. "Let's see how patient they are." He smiled wickedly. 

They waited. The remaining three hostages clung to each other, two women and one man. They sat in the middle of the room, visible for everyone with no place to hide and no privacy at all. Two of Kincaid's men guarded them, their weapons directed at their heads the whole time. Their hands never quivered from the strain. The other five men watched the entrance, two at the main window, three at the rear. The young man wounded by the security guard's gun leaned against one of the counters. Blood had soaked through the left sleeve of his shirt. His hand pressed an already bloody bandage to the wound. 

The phone went mute after four minutes. Kincaid shook his head in disappointment. "That's poor, fellas," he said pitiful. "So poor." 

Walking to the counter, he reached out to touch the wounded man's hair. The gentle gesture stood in stark contrast to the violence he'd already inflicted. "How's the arm?" he asked, taking in the blood and his fellow's pale face. 

"Not too bad," the young man replied, lying without hesitation because he knew he mustn't be weak. 

"Good," Kincaid was pleased. He picked up the phone and dialed 911. "This is Cascade Savings Bank and my name is Garret Kincaid. If you're smart enough you know what's going on here. I want a medic in here. Five minutes." The villain turned around and beamed at his companions. "I love this!" He gestured to his men guarding the hostages. "If there isn't a knock at the door in five minutes, shoot the woman in the leg, give them one more minute, then shoot the other leg, and so on." He made a dismissive gesture. "You know the drill." 

The woman screamed in fear while the first shooter already took aim. 

* * *

Jim Ellison flinched as the fifth shoot within the last five minutes rang out. He'd head her screaming, the pained whimpers every time the gun fired. She'd pleaded with her tormentors, her voice growing weaker from minute to minute. Now, it was silent inside the bank. 

"Damn, what is he doing in there?" Simon Banks cursed, glancing at his watch. 

Mentally shaking himself awake, Jim took a deep shuddering breath. He had no idea why he'd been able to hear the execution of that woman from the distance but he knew he couldn't remain silent any longer. He might die today but he vowed to himself, whoever was in that bank was going to hell with him. 

"I'm going inside," Ellison announced and waved one of the medics. "I need your gear." 

"Are you nuts?" Banks barked, not realizing that not long ago he'd asked this question before. "You are dead the moment you step through that door." 

Checking the medical equipment quickly, Jim met Banks' glance. "They just tortured one of the hostages to death, sir. I'm not gonna listen to them do it again." The piercing look in his eyes had returned. 

"Listen? What are you talking about, Ellison?" Simon's voice rose, knowing he wouldn't be able to stop the man. "You couldn't possibly..." 

"With all due respect, Captain, half an hour ago you ordered me to join this operation. Now I'm here and I'm going in." He took out his gun, unloaded it and offered it to his superior. "I'm your best bet." 

Grimly, Simon accepted the empty gun. "Good luck," he said simply. 

* * *

"Thirty-five minutes," Kincaid jumped off the counter at the sound of a knock at the door. "They finally made up their minds." With a wave of a hand, the two men securing the entrance, took position. Kincaid drew his own weapon, standing close to the door as it opened. 

A tall, muscular man stepped inside, vivid blue eyes scanning the room immediately. The man never tensed as the cold metal of a gun pressed into his temple. 

"What's your name, soldier?" Kincaid asked while one of his people searched the newcomer for any kind of weapons. 

Jim didn't blink as a rough hand touched his ass and then his front. "James Ellison," he introduced himself calmly. 

"Clean, sir!" the guard announced, stepping back slightly to aim his weapon again. 

Kincaid held out his hand. "Garret Kincaid." 

Puzzled at the odd behavior, Jim took the proffered hand and shook it. "Nice to meet you," he said automatically. 

The terrorist burst out into laughter. "Nice to meet me?" he repeated, his voice hysterical. "Nice to meet me? That's a good one, James Ellison!" He slapped Jim's shoulder. 

Jim was pushed into the large bank room. Quickly, he mentally logged crucial information - two living hostages, seven dead, seven guards and an injured man back at the counter. And Kincaid, of course, who just spoke up again. 

"James Ellison, may I introduce you to my salon: To your left there's Mr. McBride and Mr. Johnson; to your right Mr. Collins and Mr. Nelson; at the back over there Mr. Temple, Mr. McGregor and Mr. Filmore." Kincaid gestured to his wounded fellow. "Your first course of action will be the treatment of my friend over there, Mr. Sandburg." 

Chapter Two 

The tall police captain chomped down on his unlit cigar. It was the only sign of his nervousness. No, maybe the little pearls of sweat on his forehead would've indicated Banks' emotions as one of his detectives entered the lion's den. 

"Do we have a name?" Banks asked, addressing nobody in particular. 

Joel Taggart, the Bomb Squad expert, answered. "No, the only call we received was the one asking for a medic." Taggart's friendly face took on a pained expression. "It seems like he's enjoying this." 

Simon just nodded, intently watching the bank. "Snipers?" 

"They're in position, sir, but there's been no visual contact yet." This time Henri Brown supplied the answer. "We're practically blind." 

Simon nodded again. "And deaf." 

"Captain!" A female voice shouted. 

Banks winced, closing his eyes briefly. This wasn't the time or place to deal with hysterical wives, ex-wife, he corrected himself. With a calming smile on his face, he turned around. 

"Everything's under control, Carolyn," he greeted the Chief of Forensics. He lied smoothly, unwilling to take the blame for sending Jim inside. 

"What's going on? I heard it on the radio," Carolyn inquired, looking around the closed-off area, taking in the heavy arms and police vehicles. 

Before Simon could find the right words to explain the situation, the woman spoke up again. "Jimmy's inside, isn't he." It was rather a statement than a question, her voice calm. 

"He's our best," Banks stated lamely, hoping it would do. 

Lt. Plummer looked at him strangely. "Our best? God, Simon, have you see him lately? Like this morning? He's a wreck!" The voice rose at the last sentence. 

Following the conversation, Joel Taggart jumped in. "Carolyn, I'm sure Jim knows what he's doing." He glanced a concerned look at Banks who just nodded. 

Carolyn let out a joyless laugh. "He asked for some time off, didn't he?" she turned to Banks again. "He's out of control, Simon." 

"Carolyn...," Simon began but then he trailed off, uncertain, and for the first time wondering if Jim had taken on this suicidal assignment deliberately. He'd known the detective for several years now, known him as unyielding, determined and successful police officer. Sure, he'd crossed the line a few times too often and he was not very much liked among his fellow officers. However, Jim Ellison was a good cop and a good man. 

'Out of control'. Plummer's words still echoed through the air. Simon stared at the building, his cigar suddenly tasting foul. 

Ellison _was_ the best. 

Wasn't he? 

* * *

Under the watchful eyes of Kincaid's armed horde, Jim went over to the injured man. As he walked by the remaining hostages looked at him hopefully, desperately, and pleadingly. 'It's gonna be okay,' Jim tried to send out the message with his eyes. His jaws clenched and anger surged through his body when he caught sight of the dead woman. For some ungodly, merciless reason he'd heard her screams, witnessed her death. And now he saw her lifeless body. She lay in a massive pool of blood. Wounds on her legs, thighs, arms and, finally, her stomach and, Jim swallowed, her head, showed her long suffering. 

The young man, Sandburg, sat motionless on the hard floor; his eyes never opened at his approach. 'A hippie boy,' Jim thought, taking in the long, curly hair, the colorful vest and jeans. Ugly red patches of blood stained the sleeve of the man's white shirt. Studying the pale, sweaty face, Jim noticed the tight lines of pain circling the closed eyes. Sweat glistened, trailing down his cheeks and throat. The signs of shock were obvious. 

"He'd be better off on the couch over there," Jim judged, indicating a nearby arrangement of chairs, a small table, and a comfortable leather couch. 

Startled, Sandburg opened his eyes, jerking in surprise at the unfamiliar voice. Immediately he winced at the pain in his arm. Confused, he looked up at the stranger. "What?" 

'God, he's just a kid!' The thought crossed Jim's mind as he noticed the most expressive blue eyes he'd ever seen. Pain-filled, vulnerable and gentle, they didn't fit the description of a terrorist at all. 

Looks could be deceiving though. 

"I'm a medic," Jim said, suppressing the urge to smile. "The couch would be more comfortable." He indicated again to his left. 

"Oh. O--okay." Biting his lips, Sandburg slowly bent his legs and got up on his knees. The pain was reflected on his face, but no sound escaped the young man's mouth. Kincaid's men watched the struggle, nobody offering a helping hand. 

"Get you butt in gear, Sandburg," Kincaid's voice rang and the terrorist stepped a bit closer. "We don't have all day." 

Still on his knees, Sandburg nodded, his lips drawing a tight line. "It--..." swallowing the rest of the sentence, the man slowly pushed himself off the ground. He swayed dangerously and shuffled over to the couch. Only a few inches away from the safe haven, his knees suddenly buckled. In an act born of pure will power and the fear to embarrass his leader, Sandburg lurched forward, collapsing on the couch, his face buried in the soft leather. 

Jim could hear the muffled outcry of pain, a gasped 'Ohhhh, God'. He put his bag of medical supplies on the floor, ignoring his own urge to offer comfort. Behind him he heard Kincaid's triumphant voice. 

"See? I knew he would make it. My man," he proclaimed proudly. Then, "Hey, James Ellison, do you have any painkillers in that bag of yours?" The voice came closer. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Jim saw that Sandburg slowly rolled on his back, his hand clutching the wounded arm again. "Yes, I'll give him something as soon as I've taken his vitals," Ellison replied, taking out a syringe and a bottle of clear liquid. 

"Get rid of it!" Kincaid order sharply, nodding to one of his men, McBride. 

"What?" Jim looked up - and right into the barrel of a gun. 

"I don't trust you, Ellison," Kincaid spat. "I want everything remotely resembling painkillers or anesthesia removed from your hands. Is that clear?" When Jim just shrugged and offered his bag to McBride's searching hands, Kincaid screamed again, "Is that CLEAR?" The gun was pressed to Jim's forehead. 

"Yes." Jim stated simply. 

"Then get to it!" Looming over them, Kincaid watched every motion, the gun still aimed. "If you hurt him, I'll kill you," he promised. "If he so much as screams, you'll wish you'd never been born." 

A gleaming lit his eyes, a fire of lust, that made Jim shudder. The man was insane, not caring about life or death. Ellison was sure of that now. Concentrating on the task at hand, Jim knelt down beside his patient. 

"What's your name?" he asked, trying to determine how coherent the young man was. Also this way he could maybe get important information. 

Despite the pain he was in, the answer came quickly. "Blair Sandburg." Pain laced his voice, but didn't mask the pleasant timbre. "You--you're Ellison?" Forehead wrinkled in confusion. 

"Jim." 

Soon the gun returned, this time pressing into his neck. "This is no afternoon coffee party, James Ellison. Do what you have to do but shut THE FUCK up!" Kincaid breathed down his neck, the moist air sending shivers down Jim's spine. "If you don't, I'll break your jaws, okay?" 

'Maybe this is the right time to die,' Jim thought as he carefully turned around to look at Kincaid's enraged face. Then his glance went back to the young man who needed his help and who was staring at him with those incredibly blue eyes. "Listen, Kincaid, shoot me if you want. Your friend here is injured and slowly bordering on shock. If you do not know how to treat him, I strongly advise you to read 'First aid for beginners'." There... the bullet was about to smash his skull, Jim was sure of it. 

Instead, Kincaid grinned broadly. "I'm impressed, man, you have guts. I always appreciate that!" He walked around to sit on the back of the couch. "He's all yours." 

"How are you feeling?" Jim turned his attention back to Sandburg. What was his first name again? Blair? "...Blair?" he added, taking his vitals. 

"I'm okay," Sandburg said and his eyes darted to Kincaid. 

Jim noticed the reaction. "Are you dizzy?" 

"A bit." 

"That's the loss of blood and the shock," Jim explained, and then touched Blair's hand that still pressed onto the wound. "I've got to take a look." Working quickly and efficiently, Ellison soon realized that the wound wasn't life threatening but painful. To him it was little more than a 'scratch' but somehow Jim had the feeling that this Sandburg kid wasn't used to being shot at and injured in that way. 

"Does it hurt?" Jim pressed a clean bandage on the wound. 

"Just a little," Blair lied, wearing a false mask of bravery. To please Kincaid, Jim was sure of it. 

Jim nodded. "Well, the bullet went right through your arm. There doesn't seem to be any damage to the bone or muscle." Taking off the bandage again, Jim could hear the hiss of pain. "You gonna need stitches though." He turned to Kincaid. "I need some anesthesia to numb the area." 

Kincaid pursed his lips, his glance switching from Ellison to Blair, then to the angry red wound on the man's arm. The strange glow in his eyes was back as he said, "No can do, Ellison. You're a clever son-of-a-bitch, I'll give you that." 

"It's gonna hurt like hell," Jim promised, not at all surprised at the coldhearted decision. 

"Blair can take it," Kincaid said sternly. He stroked the long curls and drew the face to him. "Right, my man?" 

"I'll be fine," Sandburg whispered, his eyes and voice showing his fear. 

Jim prepared his supplies. "I need you to relax, Blair. I'll be as quick as possible, but you have to help me." 

"I'll help him relax," Kincaid announced. 

"Are you ready?" Jim smiled reassuringly. 

"Yes," The whisper spoke denial. Blair turned his head to Kincaid, his eyes begging. "Help me?" he breathed, reaching out to the terrorist. His face distorted in pain as Jim started to work on his arm. 

"Share you pain with me," Kincaid said, his voice almost husky. 

"Garret!" Blair shouted, not a really screaming, his mouth open as he sucked in the air. 

In a swift motion, Kincaid's mouth came down on Blair's in a demanding, passionate kiss. He pressed his tongue against the fleshy lips forcing entry. The younger man moaned in pain, but fiercely returned the kiss. Their tongues dueled, probed inside each other, tasting and enjoying. 

Startled and totally taken by surprise at the display of hunger and passion, Jim needed a second to digest the disgusting scenario. He hadn't realized Kincaid and Sandburg were a couple. Whereas he wasn't homophobic or anything, not at all, the idea of the brute Kincaid and Sandburg's gentleness paired in the reign of love, made the bile rose in his throat. 

Accompanied by their lustful sounds, Jim continued his work. 

"I'm proud of you," Kincaid crooned between kisses. Sucking passionately on the delicious lips, his hand reached down between Blair's legs. He trailed the denim-clad crotch with his fingers, pinching the area occasionally. At another moan, Kincaid cupped the hidden genitals and squeezed tenderly. Then he stroked the growing bulge. "Yeah... you feel so good, love, you're doing good... so brave...," Kincaid's voice quivered with the approaching climax. "Let me taste you again. So good..." Tears pearled down Blair's cheeks. "Don't cry, babe, you're so hot writhing around like that. You make me so hot..." Licking off the tears, Kincaid rubbed his own groin against the back of the couch. 

While the tongue bathed his face, Blair briefly opened his eyes. The blue ocean of tears looked up at Jim, sending an unspoken message, asking for the pain to stop. 

"I'm almost done, Chief," Jim promised as the eyes shut tight again. 

Kincaid's motions became frantic. He devoured Blair's moaning mouth again, while his hand roughly caressed the imprisoned cock. He sighed, then grunted with pleasure. Blair's hips moved a little, his erection straining to get free. 

"Ohhhhh, Gaaawd, Ga--rrettt," Blair moaned, pain and pleasure clouding his mind. 

Then it was over. The final grunt Kincaid's while Jim sealed the wound on Blair's arm, another jerk against the back of the couch and the caress was gone. However, Kincaid never weakened or collapsed during the rush of his climax. A long "yyyeessss!" was the only indication of his lust. 

Without another glance at his young lover - 'Lover?' Jim thought. 'Sex toy'd be a better word.' - Kincaid straightened. "Men! Let's tell the world outside what The Sunrise Patriots have to say!" He walked over to the counter. 

Jim bandaged the wound. Noticing Blair's rapid breathing, he carefully reached out to brush away a long brown curl. The skin was hot and moist to his touch. "You okay, Chief?" he asked gently, the repulsion he'd felt before fled at the sight of the abandoned, hurting man in front of him. 

Sandburg nodded, but didn't meet his eyes. He turned his flushed face to the other side, hiding his embarrassment. He bent his left leg and let it limply fall against the back of the couch. "Are you finished?" Blair asked hoarsely. 

"Yes. You are gonna be alright." Jim watched as Blair carefully moved his injured arm to lie on his stomach. It was a fruitless attempt to shield his still straining erection. 

The detective shook his head slightly. Abandoned and hurting. A kid and a terrorist. Jim sighed. He shrugged out of his leather coat and gently covered Blair's curled up body. "It's okay," he said in a low voice. "Everything's gonna be okay." 

The big blue eyes, still moist with tears, blinked in surprise. "Thanks," Blair whispered. 

Chapter Three 

A startled jerk met his gentle touch. Two pairs of blue eyes, as different in color as the two men were in nature, spoke a secret message. Fear versus concern. Uncertainty versus loyalty. 

"Are you thirsty?" Jim asked in a low voice, his hand slowly withdrawing from the shoulder he'd just touched. 

The blue eyes of his opponent drifted shut again. "No." 

"You need the fluids, buddy," the detective reasoned while he put away the medical supplies. 

The blue eyes flashed open. "You're not my mother, man." Sudden anger replaced the fear. "Leave me alone." 

Jim shrugged mutely. Rummaging in his bag, he listened to Kincaid's one-sided phone conversation. 

"My name is Garret Kincaid. Who am I speaking to?" 

<"This is Captain Simon Banks of the Cascade Police Department.">

Ellison's head snapped around at the voice of his superior. What the hell...? Kincaid leaned against the counter, holding the phone leisurely as if having some small talk with an old friend. No speakers, no sign of Banks. Jim shook his head, rubbing his temple at the sounds he could hear so clearly. "Damn, not now," he muttered to himself and covered one of his ears. 

Kincaid pursed his lips in a mocking smile. "Well, Captain Banks, I would say you screwed up. In a war like this you should be relieved from your duties immediately. If I were your commander you'd be executed." He paused for a moment, knowing his words would hit the target. "So far you have seven casualties and two prisoners of war - not including James Ellison who's my prime hostage." 

<"What do you want, Kincaid?"> Banks' voice came painfully clear over the phone. Still kneeling by the couch, Jim tried to take a deep breath. He wasn't hearing things. He wasn't seeing things. It was all in his head, yes, he imagined it. Hallucinations. Drugs. 

The terrorist glanced at his watch. "It's almost 7 p.m. I want food for my men and no disturbances for the night, you hear me, Banks? No attempt to come in here and make a mess of things. All exits and windows are sealed with explosives." Kincaid exposed his teeth again in a deadly grin. "Of course, if you like blood baths, you may come in anytime." 

<"What guarantee do I have that you won't kill the remaining hostages?">

"Guarantees? You want guarantees? What if I give you a hostage?" Kincaid offered generously, mockingly. 

<"What are your demands?">

"Michael Forrester and Richard Morrison," Kincaid supplied. "Tomorrow morning, 8 a.m. Any further details will be given on a need-to-know basis. Don't forget the food, Captain. Good Night." 

<"Kin--">

The villain threw the receiver back on the cradle. He turned around, gesturing at the dead hostages. "McGregor, Filmore, put them in one of the offices over there. They stink." Glancing back at Ellison he ordered, "Collins, tie him up!" 

The replies came in unison. "Yes, commander." 

* * *

Simon Banks talked on the phone again. The mayor and the Chief of Police demanded a briefing, both of them understandably worried at the violent situation. Detective Brown and a uniformed officer struggled to keep the press away from the scene, while Taggart conferenced with his bomb squad team about the threat of explosives. Lt. Carolyn Plummer watched the wellorganized chaos, a feeling of helplessness creeping up her spine. 

"Yes, Mayor Thompson, I strongly believe Kincaid's threats are to be taken seriously," Simon just spoke up, then listened again. "No, Chief, we have not yet determined who Forrester and Morrison are. At an educated guess I'd say..." He listened again, frowning. "Yes, sir, I understand. Kincaid didn't give us any more information and if I may sayso, sir, I fear we'll have to play by his rules for the time being." 

A uniformed officer approached Carolyn, drawing her attention away from Simon's conversation. 

"Mayor, we cannot take the usual steps to fight a hostage situation. Seven people are already dead. Yes, ma'am, seven," Banks confirmed the horrifying number. "Kincaid hasn't shown his willingness to negotiate yet, and apparently he is pretty sure of himself." Banks nodded. "One of my men, Detective Jim Ellison, is inside the building now. Yes. One and the same. No, sir, Detective Ellison is not our regular negotiator but at this point he's our best bet." Taking off his glasses, Simon pinched his nose. "I'll keep you posted. Yes. Thank you, Mayor Thompson. Chief..." With a frustrated sigh, he ended the call and the cell phone disappeared into the pocket of his coat. 

"They turned off the heat," Carolyn said, dismissing the officer with a grateful nod. "It's not much but maybe we can trade a hostage." 

"He might kill someone," Banks mused, shaking his head at a man's insanity. 

"What did they say?" Carolyn asked, referring to the phone call. 

Simon sighed. "Not much. The Mayor is shocked, the Chief outraged. Talked about sending in the National Guard." 

"Is that wise?" Carolyn frowned. "If Kincaid finds out, he might--kill everyone." Her voice shook suddenly, remembering her former husband. 

The Captain noticed her despair and placed a large hand on her shoulder. "Jim's gonna be okay, Carolyn. He survived 18 months in Peru; he's tough." 

"I know. It's just...," Carolyn quickly turned away to hide her moist eyes. 

* * *

The plastic handcuffs dug into his hands. The sharp sensation wavered on and off, making Jim wonder for the umpteenth time what was wrong with him. Like a short-circuit, the sensory spikes flashed through his body, leaving him uncertain of his own abilities. First sound, now touch, and when he expected it last, a gruesome stench of blood and death assaulted his nose even though the dead hostages had been taken away. 'Like cheap dolls,' Jim added in his mind, remembering the indignifying drag-and-drop action. 

Following Kincaid's demands, food arrived shortly before 7 o'clock. The terrorists ravaged the sandwiches, fries, hamburgers, fruits and coffee. The two other hostages sat on the floor near the counter - away from Ellison - almost too terrified to eat the offered food. 

"Hey, my man, here -- you need to eat something." The gentle tone Kincaid used sounded wrong to Jim's ears. Sitting on the cold floor by the couch, the detective sensed the motion behind him, struggling not to react to the false caresses and slimy sympathy. 

"I'm not really hungry," Blair Sandburg murmured, not fully awake after the short period of sleep. He winced as he turned on his back and jostled his injured arm. 

The strong scent of orange juice bit Jim's nose. He breathed through his mouth to avoid sneezing. 

Kincaid spoke softly. "Come on, kid, have an orange." A smile laced his voice. "I peeled it for you." 

"Thanks." Still covered with Jim's leather jacket, Sandburg slowly sat up and accepted the fruit. "What's going on?" he inquired, curling his legs to make room for his lover. 

Kincaid shrugged and sat down beside the younger man. "I think they understand the gravity of this situation." He reached out burying his hand the thick mop of curls. "How's the arm?" 

Sandburg cast a look at the bandage on his limb. "Not too bad." 

Leaning forward, Kincaid pressed a short kiss on Sandburg's lips, withdrawing too quickly to give the other man a chance to return the sweetness. "I'm proud of you. You took it like a man." 

"When can we get out of here?" 

Still enjoying the sensation of silky curls, Kincaid said, "The deadline's tomorrow morning 8 a.m. sharp." A smile colored his voice as he added, "We have enough time. The bank manager has a nice office back there." 

Jim's gut knotted in a cold wave of disgust coupled with rage. Surprised by himself, he wanted to shout out loud in denial. The prospect of Kincaid and Sandburg making out sickened him. It didn't feel right, homophobic thoughts or not. Kincaid was brutal and violent whereas Sandburg was -- what? A kind soul? Human? Amicable? A nice guy? 'He's associated with the terrorists, for crying out loud!' Jim reminded himself sharply. Still, deep inside he hoped Sandburg would reject the offer. 

"What do you say, love?" Kincaid prompted, tightening his hold on the curls. 

Moving forward, Sandburg leaned into the touch, his cheek rubbing against the large hand. "Can't wait to make you feel good." He turned his head as far as the strong grip allowed. He kissed the back of Kincaid's hand. "Want you...," he whispered seductively. "Need to feel you so bad." 

Kincaid released the long hair; his hand tenderly stroked the cheek. "Soon," he promised. His fingers traced the delicious curve of the younger man's upper lips. 

The rosy tip of Sandburg's tongue flickered across the fingers, speaking an unspoken invitation. Opening his mouth, Blair closed his eyes as the finger traveled inside for a moment, then resumed the journey around his lips. Following their trail, Blair rested his head against the couch, sighing deeply. "Take me...soon," he pleaded huskily. 

Forced to listen to their conversation, Jim couldn't shake the feeling that it was a well-prepared play, with Kincaid demanding attention and Blair willingly giving whatever he was asked to give. The knot in his stomach grew, squeezing his insides. 

Jim cleared his throat, interrupting the nauseating act. "I need to go to the bathroom," he announced. The urge was not unbearable, but he wanted to stop the romantic interlude behind him. 

"Denied," Kincaid replied promptly, producing his gun and pressing it to Jim's neck. "And if you piss your pants, I'll make you lick it off." 

The pressure on his neck lessened, as Blair's hand gently covered the gun. "Come on, Garrett, let him go." He smiled reassuringly. "As a reward for helping me." 

Contemplating the suggestion, Kincaid lowered the gun. "You're right. After all, I'm not inhuman." He nudged Jim's shoulder. "Get your ass in gear, Ellison, before I change my mind." 

While Jim struggled to get to his feet - the bound hands making the task quite difficult - Kincaid waved one of his men. "McBride! Take his majesty to the bathroom." 

"Thanks," Jim mumbled, displaying a mask of gratitude he didn't feel. However, he'd succeeded to break the loving banter between Kincaid and Sandburg. For some strange reason he was relieved, even if it cost him some dignity now. 

At gun point McBride escorted him to the bathroom. Jim walked slowly, his cramped muscles from sitting in one spot for too long protested every movement. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw that Blair had resumed his position on the couch. The young man shrugged into Jim's jacket, wrapping his arms around himself. Kincaid checked the windows and talked to his men. 

Jim sighed. Mission accomplished. 

"Quit stalling, asshole," McBride shoved Jim into one of the stalls the luxury restroom. 

The detective stumbled forward and almost lost his balance. His knees hit the porcelain bowl, the pain piercing through his legs like an electric current. He hissed, realizing that it was happening again. 

"Would you mind?" Jim indicated his hands, still bound behind his back. 

McBride chewed on his lower lip. "Yes," he stated, moving close enough to jam the barrel of his gun into Jim's back. "I do mind, smartass. You'd think I'm so dumb to take off those cuffs, ey?" 

"I'd never think that, man," Jim lied smoothly. His back hurt where the gun had hit him, waves of pain traveling up and down his spine. 

"Good," McBride breathed against his neck. The gun never wavered as he reached around and quickly opened Jim's pants. Fumbling inside the boxers, McBride roughly pulled out Jim's penis. "Piss!" he bellowed. 

Jim winced at the strong grip. As he strained to relieve himself, he suddenly felt every inch of McBride's callused hand. Involuntarily the uneven skin stroked his sensitive flesh, waking unwanted sensations. Jim groaned in horror. Pleasure floated through his body while his cock developed a mind of its own and swelled under the touch. Rising with each passing second, the heat became unbearable. Jim dove into the ocean of passion. 

He didn't hear McBride's enraged outcry of disgust. "You son of a bitch!" He didn't see the fist coming up against his jaw, didn't taste the blood as his lips split open at the impact. He didn't smell his own arousal. He didn't know what happened to him as he enjoyed the exquisite sensation. Later, he'd learn it was called "the zone-out factor". 

Chapter Four 

Voices. 

"...hear me? Ellison?" 

A murmur of words lured him out of the deep ocean of tactile sensations, out of his refuge. Spoken softly, the underlying command sounded urgent. Jim frowned at the audible concern. What had happened? Why did he feel so energized and numb at the same time? Hearing the pleasant voice again, the detective slowly drove to the surface. 

"If you can hear me, man, open your eyes, okay?" 

Open your eyes? That was the whole problem? Still confused, Jim enjoyed the voice's caress. 

"Please... Jim." 

The concern turned into a heart wrenching beg, the use of his first name evidence of the speaker's worry . A hand touched his face. Stroking gently. "Come on, man. Everything's gonna be just fine." 

Abruptly, the caress disappeared, the pleasant timbre replaced by a short yelp of pain. Another voice joined the first, harsh and angry. 

"What are you think you're doing, Sandburg?! You'd better get your hands off him, you hear me?" 

Kincaid and Sandburg - the terrorist and the kid. Jim winced at the shouting voice; the memories of the past few hours rushed back to him. Hostage situation, seven people dead, one injured. The young man, Sandburg, hurting on the couch. Kincaid getting off on the kid's pain. 

"Let me go, Garrett! He might be sick!" 

Ellison opened his eyes, groaning as the bright light assaulted him. He tried to shield his face but his hands were still bound behind his back, his fingers numb already. Lying on the floor, Jim scanned his environment quickly. 

Nothing had changed. But what the hell had happened? 

"What happened?" the detective mumbled the question, his brain fuzzy and his thoughts unfocused. Through his half-closed eyes he saw Kincaid and Sandburg, the odd couple, standing close by. The younger man tried to wrench his arm free from the terrorist's strong grip; Anger visible on both faces. 

In a flash - Ellison barely noticed the motion - Kincaid lurched forward and grabbed the front of his shirt. "What happened? You son-of-a-bitch jerked off in my man's hand! You fuckin'pervert!" 

Before Jim could even digest the words, he saw Kincaid's foot coming up against him. His muscles tensed to meet the blow, but it still felt like all air blew out of his lungs, igniting a fire inside his stomach at the same time. Not being able to protect chest, Jim bent his legs, curling up on the cold ground as another kick hit him full force. 

"Stop it, damnit!!" Sandburg's voice cut through the air. 

Breathing heavily, Jim sighed in relief at the shout. Waves of pain surged through his body. While he fought to regain his composure, Ellison mouthed a mute 'thanks'. 

"Shut the fuck up!" Kincaid spat, whirling around to face his lover. "What? Did he turn you on, or what?" 

Sandburg met his enraged glance calmly. "Just chill, will you? He's not worth it, man!" He shrugged. "I just don't want you to kill a cop." 

So much for the silent support, Jim thought, coughing miserably. 

Kincaid's face turned into an evil smile. He reached out and pulled Sandburg close, his hand weaving through the long brown curls. "Smart and beautiful," he murmured. "That's my man!" The quick kiss was hard and demanding. 

"Never forget that." The whisper travelled through the air, reaching Jim's ears. The detective finally managed to control his breathing. He looked up and watched silently as Kincaid released his charge and turned to his men. For a second, Jim caught sight of Sandburg. Their eyes met briefly. Jim's gaze riveted on the small bleeding cut in Sandburg's lip where Kincaid had just bit him, asking a silent question. Then Sandburg turned away to take a look at the dinner offerings that had been brought in earlier. His hand wiped away the little trail of blood. 

* * *

It was probably only due to Sandburg's efforts that he didn't have to spend the long night on an empty stomach. Much to Ellison's surprise his hands were uncuffed momentarily, and then his right hand fastened to one of the chairs. 

"We don't wanna tempt you to run away," Filmore, Kincaid's goon #4, sneered as he applied the bondage. "Enjoy your dinner." From a distance McBride pointed his gun at him. 

"Coffee?" Blair Sandburg's voice came out of nowhere. 

"Thank you," Jim said and flexed the fingers of his left hand to get the blood circulating. "Can you hold on to that for a second?" he asked indicating his numb hand. "Need to get it to work again." 

Blair put the cup of steaming hot coffee beside him on the floor. "It's hot," he warned and started to turn around. 

"Hey...," Jim fought the urge to grab his wrist. Instead he just raised his hand in a friendly gesture. 

"What?" 

"Thank you," Jim said honestly. 

"No big deal." Sandburg shrugged. 

Carefully, Jim tried to use his left hand, pleased to see that the fingers closed around the cup of coffee. Taking a sip, he enjoyed the warm liquid. "This might sound strange," Ellison began. "Can you tell me what... what happened back there?" He moved his head towards the restrooms. 

A frown crept into the younger man's face. "What do you mean?" Blair sat down on the couch, occupying himself with another hamburger. He knew Kincaid observed him from the other side of the room. 

Jim swallowed his coffee again. "I don't remember," he confessed. 

"What's the last thing you know?" 

Jim took a bite of the offered sandwich. "McBride escorted me to the bathroom." He shrugged. "Then I remember hearing your voice. And I'm on the floor." 

The blue eyes widened. "That's it?" Shaking his head, Blair chewed on his hamburger before he answered. "Well, I can only tell you what McBride told us. You got the hell of a hard-on when he touched your dick, you came all over his hand and then you were GONE, man." He chuckled. "I wish I could've seen McBride's face though." 

"What?" Jim stared, searching his body for any indication that the story was true. He recollected the feeling of being energized and tired at the same time when he'd come to. 

"It took me 10 minutes to get you back," Blair continued, nibbling on an apple now. 

"I don't remember any of this," Ellison whispered. "This hasn't happened before." 

"It can happen that your sense of touch, or any other sense, goes crazy sometimes," Blair said, suddenly sounding like a teacher. "Maybe you ingested something lately. Any drugs...maybe involuntarily?" he added hastily seeing Ellison's shocked face. 

"No, nothing." He was clean. He knew he hadn't taken any drugs. The conversation in Simon's office earlier that day - so long ago already - came back to mind. Jim shook his head. "No," he repeated. 

"Have you experienced any other sensory spikes?" Blair asked, his eyes watching him closely. 

"No," Jim lied. After all, in the current situation giving away any weakness could be deadly. "I don't know what's going on," he added more to himself than to the interested listening beside him. 

"It could all be perfectly natural," Sandburg spoke up again. 

Jim turned his attention back to the young man. "You sound like you know about this kind of stuff. Are you a teacher?" 

A flash of pain crossed the expressive face. Then it was gone and Blair replied, "Who? Me? You've got to be kidding!" The disguised smile spoke of loss and regret. 

"You sound like one," Jim insisted, his piercing blue eyes drilling into the young man's soul. 

Suddenly, the friendly face vanished. "You don't know anything, Ellison," Sandburg spat, standing up while he spoke. "Don't ask any more stupid questions, you hear me?" Without sparing another look Blair walked over to Kincaid. 

From his distant spot on the floor Jim winced as his hearing picked up the conversation. 

"Did he give you a hard time?" Kincaid looked over to Jim, threatening him with inhuman, cold eyes. 

Blair's voice was soft. "No." He put an arm around the terrorist's waist, leaning close to the muscled body. "I'm tired." 

"Then let's go." Kincaid buried his nose in the mane of curls, inhaling the scent. 

Hesitating, Blair raised his head. "Can we ...," he trailed off as Kincaid nuzzled his neck, travelling to his throat and back. 

"I want you." Kincaid sighed. Turning to his armed men, he gave the order. "McBride, McGregor, I hold you personally responsible for any disturbances!" 

"Understood, commander!" 

Hand in hand, Kincaid and Sandburg crossed the room, walked by the couch and disappeared in to an office labelled 'Manager'. For a moment, Jim felt Sandburg's eyes on him but he didn't look up. Then the two men were gone, closing the door and turning the key. 

Jim threw his sandwich back on the plate. Suddenly he'd lost all his appetite. 

* * *

A shudder went through Blair's body as the door closed behind them. The turn of the lock sent another shiver down his spine, promising a long and passionate encounter. The familiar backpack sitting by the couch confirmed his thoughts. 

"No windows," Sandburg observed. The office was richly furnished, lacking nothing in comfort except for an outside view. 

Kincaid encircled his waist from behind. "The vault's over there," he nodded towards the big oak wall. "Guess they don't want an audience." He opened Blair's pants with a swift movement and reached inside. "I don't want one either." 

Blair groaned. Strong hands pulled out his cock, immediately squeezing and stroking it. It felt so good! He sagged against the body behind him, hoping the caress would continue, but knowing it wouldn't. "Touch me...," he moaned, his nerves twitching and enjoying the sensation. 

Kincaid jerked down his own pants. "Couch," he said simply, steering them towards the furniture. His hands still pumped Blair's cock, bringing it to full hardness. "You feel so good," Kincaid sighed. 

"Love your hands...," Blair gasped, knowing the compliment would gain him nothing. As expected, the exquisite hands left his genitals soon, his cock still throbbing with unstilled need. 

Chapter Five 

Moans of passion filled the office, the windowless place protecting their lovemaking. Kincaid pushed Sandburg down on the leather couch. The terrorist's eyes gleamed in the dim light provided by a single desk light. He took in the beautiful sight before him, his own erection pulsating greedily. Sandburg's cock stood proudly against his stomach, hungrily demanding attention. The younger man's blue eyes shone darkly with lust as he spread his legs invitingly. 

"You're so hot," Kincaid murmured and climbed on the couch, kneeling to take in the offered way to heaven. 

Sandburg gasped at his towering lover, the sound desperate, begging for a passionate caress, a loving gesture. "You make me hot," he whispered, reaching down to his own cock. His fingertips touched the sensitive flesh. 

In a moment Kincaid grabbed his hand. "Don't touch yourself!" he commanded, his voice hard, his eyes threatening. "You don't want to come before I'm done, right?" 

The reasoning in the midst of ecstasy made Blair whimper in frustration. But he knew he couldn't come, couldn't deny his lover his wish, mustn't ... "Take me," he sighed, spreading his legs even wider. "Want you to make me feel good," Sandburg added. 

"My man," Kincaid crooned, a tube of lube appearing in his hands. "Tell me how it feels," he ordered, as he coated his fingers with the slick gel. 

"Tell me." He reached between Sandburg's legs, searching for his love center. 

The lube was cold. A shiver ran through Blair's body as without preamble Kincaid pushed his finger inside. His muscles fought the intruder at first, as always. Sandburg had never particularly liked the degrading feeling of his lover poking at his ass. Only the pleasure to come overruled the sickening sensation. Maybe. He never knew when it would stop. 

"More," Blair murmured. "Want to feel you." 

"Not very vocal tonight, are you." Kincaid stated. He withdrew his finger momentarily, then returned with two. "Look at me." The smoky blue eyes locked with his. Kincaid smiled, enjoying the mute tales of those expressive, big eyes. He flexed his fingers. The eyes drifted shut only to pop open again as he reached deeper inside his lover and found his prostate. "Tell me," he asked again. "What do you feel?" 

"You!" Blair gasped, his cock swelling unbearably at the ministrations in his ass. "Again, do it... feels so good." He threw his head back exposing his throat. 

Kincaid bent forward. His lips touched the sweaty skin around Blair's Adams apple. He licked and sucked, never ceasing the motion of his fingers which were still buried deep inside Blair. His own cock surged upwards at the sound of his younger lover moaning at his touch. 

The stretching continued. Sensations sent to his brain by sensitive nerves drove Blair into a turmoil of passion. The fingers, three now, dilated his rectum. It burned at first, the pressure painful. Then the digits forced their way through the sphincter. He could breathe again. His hard-on throbbed, demanding release soon. And there was Garret's hot mouth on his chest. A tongue, agile and dexterous, teased his nipples to full erection. Arching his back a little, Blair wanted to push the small peaks deeper into the moist orifice. However, the lips released him. A cold breeze wavered across his chest, chilling him. The shiver that ran through his body wasn't lost on Kincaid. 

"You're so gorgeous, Blair," he said, his voice husky. He bent down again to suck on Blair's nipples. The same moment his lips closed around the nub he retreated blowing cold air across the quivering body. "I love to see you quiver at my touch," Kincaid mumbled. 

'I _shudder_ at your touch.' The sudden thought startled Blair and he flinched in panic. Had he said that out loud? His gaze frantically searched Kincaid's face for any sign of anger or rage. He relaxed minutely when he saw none. 

Kincaid smiled, oblivious to the disturbing thoughts of his lover. He withdrew his fingers for a last time. "Are you ready, my man?" 

Blair nodded quickly. What had brought on that thought? He loved Kincaid. "Love you, Garrett," he stressed, watching the man coating himself with lube. 

"You're quite hot yourself," the terrorist replied. With his hands he grabbed the strong thighs and pushed them apart, wider than before. "Like the sight of this." 

A spasm of pain chased through his hips, as Blair felt his legs being spread even wider. Kincaid's fingers dug into his skin. Then the hot pressure at his entrance returned. His muscles fought the intrusion, clenching, unclenching, and trying to expel the unnatural visitor. Unwelcomed. 

"You're quite tight tonight," Kincaid observed, frowning. "Open up now!" 

"Feels so g--good," Blair closed his eyes as the cock finally pushed inside. Again his anal muscles danced in protest, convulsing around the hot organ. Above him, he heard his lover's passionate moan. 

"Yeesssss!" Unmoving, Kincaid enjoyed the internal massage Blair's muscles gave his cock. 

The bulk inside him grew, swelling with each spasm of his rebelling muscles. His brain concentrated on the pressure, his own arousal forgotten. The lack of stimulation brought on pain. Blair opened his mouth, ready to voice his discomfort. 

Kincaid moved. Building a steady, fast rhythm he ignored his lover's needs. He drilled himself deeper into tight tunnel. Relentlessly, the terrorist followed the unleashed desires of his body, taking what he craved. His breath came in short gasps as he quickly approached his climax. Pulling Blair even closer Kincaid increased the speed, hitting the young man's prostate in a wild symphony. 

Spikes of ecstasy started to ravage his body. Blair sighed at the elusive relief from the discomfort he'd endured seconds ago. Kincaid surely knew how to make him enjoy this. Yeah, right, a small voice whispered, drowning out the passionate moans and sighs that escaped his lips. Kincaid never... 

Then it was over! With a final grunt, a final shove inside, Garret Kincaid shot his load into his lover's body. His hips jerked and he collapsed on top of the younger man. Breathing harshly, Kincaid rested a few moments. 

"God, you were fantastic!" the terrorist exclaimed when he had his breathing under control. Raising his head he pressed a quick kiss on Sandburg's mouth, trapping the young man's still straining erection between their stomachs. 

"Garret...," Blair started. His muscles quivered again, this time though from the impending orgasm he wanted to share with his man. 

"Just great!" Kincaid murmured the praise again. With a quick motion he pulled out his limp cock, wiping away semen and lube. After rearranging his clothes, he bent down for another kiss. "Let's get back to work." Never sparing a view at the aroused member, Kincaid reached for his weapon. "Be quick!" he ordered as he left the dimly-lit office. 

Tears burnt in his eyes as Blair wrapped his hand around the pulsating shaft. The door closed behind Kincaid. The sound drove the young man over the edge and he allowed the tears to roll down his cheeks. 

"Go away," he whispered, squeezing his erection hard. The organ throbbed beneath his hand, painfully begging for release. The sensation, unpleasant now, but Blair couldn't bring himself to the climax his body needed. This was not right. 

Biting down on his lower lip, Sandburg reached up to touch his injured arm. Had it really just been this afternoon when the bullet had penetrated his flesh? Just a few hours ago when gentle hands had taken care of him and concerned blue eyes had inquired about his well-being? His fingers dug into the bandage above the wound, pressing down into the injured flesh. Blair hissed, his stomach threatening to expel dinner. But he welcomed the pain, as he increased the grip on his arm. His erection slowly faded and the sensations he used to like so much left his body when the self-inflicted pain turned into agony. 

* * *

For the umpteenth time Detective Ellison wished he could move his hands to cover his ears. He wanted to tune out those sounds and noises he wasn't supposed to be able to hear in the first place. The sound of the hostage's weeping, soft hiccups, barely audible to anyone but him. Murmurs around him, Kincaid's men, police officers from outside - their voices penetrated the distance, driving him a step closer to the inevitable pool of insanity. He wasn't supposed to hear any of it. He couldn't. 

Then there was the sound of loving-making. Coming from inside the office Kincaid and Sandburg had disappeared; the moans and sighs grew louder with each passing minute. Heartbeats like drums threatened to explode inside his skull. Ellison felt the reverberations surging through is own body. A sharp intake of breath, a hiss of pain - god, what kind of sick play were they doing in there? Jim wanted to escape those sounds, wanted them to stop, wanted to go inside and pry the kid away from the man who was hurting him! 

The sounds grew louder and more desperate. Flesh on flesh, sucking noise, the soft sound of skin being kissed and caressed. The drumming heartbeat accelerated as did the breathing of both men. Jim squeezed his eyes shut. He felt like a voyeur listening in to the intimate melody of sex. 

The terrorist and the kid. Jim mentally shook his head. He'd used that term before, the description so different as the two men themselves. Sandburg was a smart person, educated according to what Jim had heard so far. How had he hooked up with a brutal bastard like Kincaid? Opposites attract each other but ...that? The image of them together sickened Jim; If it was love, it was probably one-sided. Sandburg seemed to look up to Kincaid for whatever reason. Kincaid on the other hand enjoyed the kid's company, his body and flesh. There was desire and hunger but, Jim was sure, no love on Kincaid's side. 

The thud of a closing door jerked Jim back to reality. Wincing at the loud sound Jim watched Kincaid coming out of the office. His face was flushed; sweat glistened on his brow. Bile rose in Jim's throat as the smell of semen and sex assaulted his nose. He coughed. 

"McBride!" Kincaid's voice made him wince again. "Is it just me or is it fucking cold in here?" 

Ellison didn't hear the answer. Guided by an invisible anchor, his hearing took him back into the office. Listening to a suppressed sob and a whimper of pain, Jim's jaw clenched painfully. 

* * *

"Anything?" Joel Taggart approached the surveillance vehicle. 

Simon Banks shook his head, while Lt. Plummer explained: "The heat's been turned off for a while so maybe Jim can talk them into releasing a hostage in exchange for that. Also we talked to the electric company. They gonna shut off the electricity soon." 

Joel watched the monitors showing not more than static. "Any visible contact yet?" 

"No," Banks spoke up. "Snipers are in position, however, there is not even a tiny opening to see what's going on it there. We could try heat seekers, but we can't take the chance at hitting one of the hostages or Ellison in the process." He sighed deeply. "Kincaid's not communicative either. We tried several times to call him. Nobody answered the phone." The bomb squad captain nodded understandingly. Before he could offer any thoughts, Detective Brown came dashing through the now pouring rain. 

"Captain Banks, this just came in for you," he breathed heavily supplying a manila folder. "Files on Forrester and Morrison, sir." 

Banks all but snatched it out of Brown's hand. "Thank you, Brown." The black police captain opened the folder and scanned its content. A minute of mute reading he sighed handing over the folder to Carolyn Plummer. "Michael Forrester and Richard Morrison. They belong to the Sunrise Patriots, imprisoned half a year ago. Murder, terrorism, manslaughter. Morrison was an explosive expert, killed several people in an amusement park. It's said they were an asset to Kincaid's gang." 

"No kidding," Joel murmured, sharing the file with Carolyn. "Does the mayor intend to set them free?" 

A cigar appeared in Simon's hand. "No," he replied curtly. 

Silence spread out between them at the implications of Simon's reply. If they didn't find a solution fast, in the early morning hours Kincaid would continue his blood bath. 

* * *

Jim had finally found a comfortable position on the floor. The couch at his back provided a nice pillow. His stomach and ribs still hurt where Kincaid had hit him before. His hands were still cuffed, in front of him this time. The clock on the wall showed 11.32 p.m.; the night was still young and not at all over. 

The smell of fresh coffee tickled his nose. Startled he looked up to see the kid standing in front of him. 

"Want some more coffee?" The pleasant timbre of Sandburg's voice always sent a wave of warmth through his body. How could a man with such a voice hook up with...? Stop it, Ellison, been there, done that. 

Jim nodded. "Thanks." He raised his chained hands to accept the steaming cup. Taking a first, tentative sip, he glanced at Sandburg. "Did you pull your stitches?" he asked, indicating the stain of blood on the bandage around the kid's upper arm. 

Much to his surprise, the kid paled. "It's nothing. Bumped into something, no big deal." 

"Uh-huh." Sipping his coffee again, Jim settled for the comment. "You should take it easy for a few days," he advised nevertheless. 

The leather couch squeaked a little as Blair sat down. He swallowed a sharp intake of breath. Growing even paler, his hands enveloped his own mug of coffee. "It's just a scratch," Sandburg murmured. Feeling Ellison's searching eyes on him, his head snapped up. "Stop it, Ellison!" 

Innocently, Jim raised his eyebrows. "Stop what?" 

"Staring at me like I'm a prize or something," Blair replied, his voice more tired than angry. 

Jim chuckled bitterly. The kid was a prize, that was true. To Kincaid and offlimits to everybody else. He wondered if Sandburg was at all aware of the sight he bore. "I'm just wondering..." he trailed off. 

"About what?" 

Ellison shrugged. "For starters, why does an educated man like youself hook up with a terrorist group?" 

Blair actually laughed. "That's none of your business, Ellison. You'd better keep your mouth shut, man, or you'll..." 

"...what? Regret it?" Jim interrupted, his voice still too low for the others to hear. "I'm not quite sure if YOU are the person to regret things." 

"Me?" 

Placing the empty cup on the ground, Jim turned his head to look at Sandburg. "What's with you and Kincaid?" he asked bluntly. 

"Are you homophobic or what?" The voice was sharp, low and, underlying trembling. 

Jim shook his head. "No," he said smiling. "Just pondering about things." 

"Then quit pondering, man," Blair snapped. "I do not have to explain my love life to someone like you." 

"Love life?" Jim licked his lips and cocked his head to one side. "Well, Chief, I hate to tell you this but it doesn't look like the great love to me." 

Now the blue eyes sparked with anger. "Garret loves me." 

"No, he just fucks you." Jim looked up to meet the blazing eyes. "Right?" 

The kid's handsome features turned into a grimace of rage. "You fucking _pig_ ," he shouted, clenching his hand into a fist and delivering a blow to the detective's face. As the knuckles connected with the strong jaw, all signs of humanity had left Sandburg's face. Rage and pain dominated. And the fear that Ellison might be right. 

Chapter Six 

Why had he done that? Why had he let his anger get the upper hand? Why did he at all _care_ about what someone like Ellison thought of him? Ellison surely didn't care about him. He was a cop. Duty, honor, country. Crap like that was the guy's life motto. One look into the hard-edged face, into those piercing blue eyes had been enough. Ellison wasn't someone to fool with. He was dangerous, unpredictable. 

Caring and vulnerable, too. Remembering Ellison's gentle touch as he had tended his injured arm and the look of fear and loss when he woke up from that strange episode in the bathroom, Blair angrily pushed his long hair out of his forehead. He had no time for compassion, damnit! He had to survive. Fuck Ellison and his moral preaching. Swimming with the sharks, he mused bitterly, no matter how high the price he had to pay. In comparison to what could've and had happened to him before, this was a joy ride, right? A small tremor ran through Sandburg's body. Remembrance hit with a vengeance sometimes. Reminding, warning, threatening. And overwhelming him. 

Kincaid loved him. Why would he take care of him, protect him, if he didn't? Right? Right?! The little word echoed inside Blair's skull, mockingly. He owed him. Everything. His freedom, his sanity, and above all, his life. Sandburg didn't take such a thing lightly. If it weren't for Garret, he wouldn't have survived. 

"Feeling better now?" the voice belonging to Jim Ellison interrupted his dark musings. A bruise started to form on his jaw where Blair's fist had hit him. 

"Fuck off, Ellison!" Sandburg replied. 

Ellison smiled coldly. "No can do, Chief. Unless you convince your -", he paused as if searching for the right words. "...your buddy to let me go. Then I'll be out of your face." 

"He could kill you, you know," Blair challenged, knowing it was a lame threat. 

Jim shrugged. "Been there, done that, kid." He reached out for his coffee again, then asked casually, "What about you?" 

"What about me?" 

"Ever killed someone?" 

"No!" The answer sounded indignant, as if uttering such a question was totally out of line, impossible, unthinkable. It probably had been - a long time ago. Jim mused watching the young man carefully. Maybe it still was. The kid was no murderer, no terrorist. Hell, he didn't even look like the average criminal! Jim nodded knowingly. "Has anyone ever tried to kill you?" he probed, observing the impressive blue eyes grow large. 

At the same moment thunder roared through the building, sending waves of pain through Jim's head. The detective flinched at the unexpected assault. 

"What's wrong, man?" The voice that had shouted at him only minutes ago was tender now, concerned. 

The thunder continued in a wild rhythm, drums reminding him of the jungle, long ago and almost forgotten, moving closer with each breath. Shock crossed Jim's features as the alleged thunder continued to reverberate through his skull. Realization dawned, revealing the impossible: He was hearing the kid's accelerating heartbeat! 

"Go away!" Jim shouted. Partly directed Sandburg who watched him with those puppy-dog eyes, partly himself, concentrating all his will power to turn out the melodic drums. Whatever was happening to him, it was impossible. Nobody could someone else's heartbeat from that distance! 

Blair touched his arm to calm him down. "Take it easy, Jim! Take a deep..." 

The detective pushed him away, not hard enough to do any harm, but strong enough to create a bigger distance between them. The disturbing sounds did not subside. 

"Fuck off, Sandburg!" Jim yelled, his own voice painfully loud. He tried to cover his ears but his cuffed hands prevented the blessed movement. One ear covered, the rhythmic sounds still assaulted him. 

"Jim, Jim!" Sandburg tried again to reach out to the police officer when a strong hand grabbed his arm. 

"What's going on here, Sandburg?" Kincaid's sharp voice questioned. 

Blair flinched in surprise. Turning halfway to his leader, he shook his head. "I don't know, man. We talked and suddenly he..." The young man shrugged. "Maybe he's sick," he suggested while his vivid brain jumped back to the earlier episode in the bathroom. Thoughts exchanged knowledge- - information travelled at speed of light through Sandburg's head. Facts, obtained from years of studies, returned, drawers opened, offering more ... 

Kincaid grew his gun and aimed it at the detective. "Maybe we should put him out of his misery then," he hissed. 

"Fuck off, Kincaid!" Ellison roared, squeezing his eyes shut at his own voice. "Did you drug the coffee so I'm an easy target?" Blinking rapidly, his eyes sight focused on the barrel of the gun. The black opening widened as he kept staring at the weapon. Waiting for the bullet that would bring peace to his mind. He could clearly see the projectile in its chamber, the trigger partly being pulled. The metal shone promisingly, deadly in its beauty. This wasn't possible, his brain supplied again and he almost sobbed in frustration. "Come on, Kincaid! Shoot me!" he encouraged. "Kill a cop and be happy!" 

Kincaid's face turned red. "Ellison, I could make your death very painful." 

"Like you did for the poor woman?" Jim challenged, gesturing towards the remaining hostages. 

The terrorist grinned. "You have guts. I knew that from the beginning." He waved the gun dramatically. "Where should we start? Thigh? Knee? Arm?" 

Jim returned the man's gaze calmly. His hearing had returned back to normal, his sight regular like before. Only heaven knew why. "Be my guest." Haunting, daring him to finally shoot. He would've spread his arms invitingly but the cuffs hindered him. 

It was dangerous game. 

"Let him go, Garret." Sandburg's quiet voice startled both man out of their power play. Carefully, as if made of precious china, he put his hand on Kincaid's. "Let him go," he repeated. 

"Are you out of your fucking mind?!" Kincaid exclaimed, staring at the younger man incredulously. "He's a cop!" 

"Yes, he is." Blair nodded. "He can tell them out there that we're deadly serious. Make a few deals for us." 

Ellison stared at the younger man in utter disbelief, as did Kincaid. For a few moments none of them said a word. Then is was Jim who broke the silence. "I always knew he was smarter than you." The line gained him another blow to his hurting jaw. 

It also brought him his freedom. 

* * *

The joker had jumped in, unexpectedly, winning the game. For him. Jim mentally shook his head as he felt Sandburg's eyes on him. The kid went from one extreme to the other, surprising him with each new action. That made him dangerous, probably even more than Kincaid and his brainless goons. 

Kincaid pressed the gun to his head again. "Listen, Ellison, and listen good. You go out there and tell you cop friends what's going on in here. Tell them Garret Kincaid is not to be fooled with." The metal pressed harder. "Be convincing, soldier!" He moved closer and breathed. "Or die." 

Of course, Jim thought, restraining himself from rolling his eyes. It couldn't get more dramatic. Who had written this silly script? Out load he said, "Understood. You'll surely get what you want if you release the remaining hostages." 

"I'll get want I want," Kincaid rephrased. He pushed Jim forward towards the door. "Go, before I change my mind." Then he laughed. "Let's hope that your nervous friends won't kill you." 

With that the front door opened. It was not the time or place for good-byes but Jim felt oddly _rude_ when he stepped into the bright light without another glance at Sandburg. It just didn't feel right. Thoughts never spoken out loud, questions never asked came to mind. Like a connection being severed, Ellison felt the unsaid like a physical need. Then the door fell shut behind him. 

Rising his arms in a surrendering gesture, the detective blinked in discomfort as the police lights blinded him momentarily. Slowly Jim walked towards the lights. Police vehicles came into focus as did the familiar faces. With his arms still in the air, Jim recognized Simon Banks. Then Taggert, Brown and Carolyn. They stared at him in confusion, their faces relieved and concerned at the same time. 

"Ellison?" Simon shouted as if he suspected a look-alike was playing tricks on him. 

Steadily, Jim kept walking. "It's alright, Simon, it's me." 

"You okay?" Banks inquired, lowering the gun he had pointed at his detective. 

"I'm fine." Jim assured. 

Banks gestured towards his men to lower their weapons. "You don't like fine," he commented, as Jim came closer. Face bruised in places, a darkening eye and split lip made the police captain frown. 

"Well, it wasn't a joy ride, sir, but I'm..." Jim trailed off. Suddenly his head was filled with a thundering heartbeat again. Not Simon's, not Taggert's or Carolyn's. With a start Ellison realized he could actually detect a familiar pattern. A melody he'd heard before. Those wild jungle drums echoed through his skull. 

Then another sound joined the song. 

Disturbing, mismatching and deadly. The sound of a gun being cocked and, at the moment, the trigger being pulled! 

The bullet ripped through his shoulder, propelling him forward. The pain shocked him momentarily, he opened his mouth to scream but then he collapsed. The scream became a moan as the world around him darkened. His racing heartbeat joined the other, composing an eerie duet of fear and agony. 

Darkness enveloped him. 

* * *

Inside the bank, Kincaid laughed out loud. Surprise quickly replaced pride. When Ellison's body collapsed to the ground, the terrorist turned around and slapped his companion on the shoulder winningly. 

"I knew you had it in you, kiddo. I'm surprised you did it, but you did good." He laughed again, throwing an arm around the younger man's neck. He drew him closer and kissed him on the mouth. 

Sandburg didn't fight him. Returning the kiss, the gun dropped from his suddenly lifeless hands. He'd just shot a cop. 

And he knew what he had done. 

Now he wasn't any different from Kincaid anymore. No kid. A terrorist - that he was. Just like Kincaid, his idol, his Blessed Protector. 

The man he hated. 

Chapter Seven 

Chomping down on the ever-present cigar Captain Banks paced the waiting room of Cascade General Hospital. He hated waiting. Being the head of a police it department involuntarily chained him to the desk of bureaucracy ever so often. Years ago he'd enjoyed the action real police work brought, the adrenaline rush, the incredible satisfaction of being able to do something important. His promotion to captain had gained him a lovely pay check, no doubt, but reacting instead of acting proved to be a definite drawback in his line of work. He depended on people to do the job he told them to do, depended on their judgements, on their reports. No playing the piano anymore, he now reined the whole orchestra. 

Whereas in his job he could at least pull the strings, Banks silently cursed the calm and professional manner of the medical personnel at Cascade General. Long hours had crept way while no word on Ellison's condition escaped the closed doors of the emergency room. He had to dance to their music and Simon didn't like the melody one bit. 

"Detective Ellison is in surgery right now. His doctor will talk to you as soon as can, sir." The pretty blonde nurse had announced hours ago, her reassuring fashion totally lost on the concerned superior. 

So, Simon Banks paced back and forth, chewing on his cigar. 

Waiting. 

Waiting that slowly made him climb the ceiling. He hated waiting. 

"Anything?" The deep voice of Joel Taggert inquired gently from behind 

"No!" Sharply, then ruefully, "Sorry, Joel." He turned around to meet Taggert's friendly face. 

Joel raised his hands. "It's okay, Simon, I understand." After a short pause, he asked, "He's strong, he'll pull through this. You know that." 

"I'm not sure that I really do," Simon replied cryptically. 

"What do you mean?" 

The tall captain shrugged. "Jim wasn't ready for this. He came to me this afternoon and requested some time off. I denied --" He waved aimlessly into the air. "You know the case load, Joel. I couldn't spare a single man." Simon fell silent for a moment. "He told me he would be a liability out there but I told him to get his act together." 

"It wasn't your fault, Simon," Joel tried to reassure him. "It was Jim's decision to go inside." 

Simon shook his head. "Maybe. Still - I'm his captain. I should've seen the signs." He captain went silent for a moment. "I've never seen him so..." Searching for the appropriate word, Simon trailed off finishing the sentence to himself. //... _scared_.// The word in association with Jim Ellison scared the hell out of _him_. Surely, Ellison was a human being like anyone else. Surviving a plane crash in Peru and living there for 18 months -- that's the stuff heroes are made off. A clich, surely, but Ellison came darn close to that picture. Not once since Ellison had joined Banks' force, the captain had seen such a haunted look in Ellison's face like he had that morning in his office. Vulnerable like a kid being scared of the dark, Ellison had turned to him for help. And he had sent him into this nightmare... 

A female voice interrupted their dark musings. "Are you here for Detective Ellison?" 

Simon turned around quickly, his eyes searching the woman's face for any indication on Jim's condition. "I' m Captain Banks, this is Captain Taggert." 

They shook hands and exchanged little pleasantries. "I' m Dr. Mitchell. I performed the surgery on Detective Ellison." 

"How is he?" Simon asked, briefly acknowledging the physician' s stunning beauty. "Will he be alright?" he added. Noticing the smile that flickered across her face, Simon allowed himself to relax. Smiling meant good news. 

"The surgery went just fine. The bullet did some tissue damage and Detective Ellison will be out of commission for a few weeks. Other than that I'm positive he'll make a full recovery." The smile widened as she spoke. 

"Thank God," Taggert murmured, patting Simon's back. 

Returning the doctor's smile, Simon sighed heavily. "Thank you, doctor." 

The woman nodded. "You may see him in a while. He's in recovery at the moment. The nurse will let you know when he's settled in his room." 

"Thank you," Simon repeated, relief spreading through his body. Jim was going to be alright. The captain clenched his hands into fist. He was going to be alright. And the bastard who did this to him was going down for that. 

* * *

He' d never felt pain like that before! Drifting towards consciousness, waves of pain collapsed over him. A fire burned in his shoulder, enveloping his arm and torso. The flames crept over his skin, inching forward and spreading more pain. 

What had happened? His foggy mind struggled to provide an answer. Concentrating on the pain in his shoulder, Jim Ellison searched for the moment the pain had appeared in the first place. He'd fallen to the ground; the gray asphalt with its dirt and little pebbles filled his vision before the darkness claimed him. Before that the pain had exploded in his left shoulder like nothing he'd ever felt in his life. Before that the bullet had ripped through him. He'd heard the trigger being pulled, the gun being cocked. He walked towards the bright lights that blinded him. He'd left the darkness. A heartbeat thundered through his head. The heartbeat sounded so familiar, like the soothing voice of an old friend. What was the heartbeat's name? 

Sleep pulled at him, coaxing him into Morpheus's arms before his brain could supply the name. Blue eyes danced in front of his closed eyes, the bluest eyes he'd ever seen -- belonging to the heartbeat he was never supposed to hear at all. Jim fought his body to stay alert, to stay awake to think more, to recapture the events, to remember the racing heartbeat and the friendly blue eyes. Soon he lost the battle and he slept restlessly. 

Dead bodies floated through his mind. Eyes, broken and lifeless, stared at him. The accusations plain and visible tore at his heart. He'd failed. Screams of fear and pain echoed through his head, blaming him for whatever had happened. Blood stuck to his hands, the blood of those he couldn't save. Of those the _failed_ to save. Then he saw hatred. He saw pleasure in the same eyes, hunger and insatiable sadism. Kincaid. The name brought on another wave of pain. Mental pain and concern for the one he'd left behind. The thundering heartbeat beat through this skull, crying out for him. 

With a start Ellison opened his eyes and found himself staring into the dark eyes of his captain. Brown eyes, not blue. 

"Jim?" Simon inquired calmly. "You are going to be alright, Jim. Everything's fine." 

Jim shook his head slightly to clear the cobwebs that clouded his vision and his memory. "Simon," he acknowledged, his voice barely audible. 

The tall man squeezed his hand. "I'm here, Jim." 

"...every'ing under con'l?" Jim murmured weakly, sleep threatening to overwhelm him momentarily. He saw Simon's reassuring nod before his eyelids drifted shut. 

* * *

The next time he woke up for a few minutes, Carolyn, his ex-wife of all people, was sitting beside him. She smiled when he opened his eyes. 

"Jim, how are you feeling?" 

He just nodded and closed his eyes again. "Fine. What are you doing here?" he couldn't help but ask. He knew she smiled when she spoke. 

"I was worried, Jim. After all...," she trailed off as he turned his head away. 

He couldn't deal with Carolyn anymore. He didn't want to. "Is Simon still here?" he asked, eyes still closed. 

Carolyn swallowed, knowing she was pushed away like some old doll that wasn't liked anymore. "Yes, he's outside making a few phone calls." 

Jim licked his dry lips. "I need to talk to him." 

"You need your rest, Jimmy," the forensics expert tried, knowing already she fought a losing battle. 

The cold blue eyes opened. "I have to talk to Simon now. Thanks for _visiting_ , Carolyn." 

The woman stood up quickly. "Why did I expect you to change?" she scolded herself. "You know what, Ellison? I do know how to care about people." She turned away and reached for the door. "Hope you're feeling better soon." 

Simon appeared a few moments later, worry and concern coloring his face. Jim sighed as he saw him. He didn't need another round of well-meant questions. He needed answers. He must know what happened to the precious heartbeat that kept reverberating through his skull. 

"Jim, how are you...," Simon began only to be cut off by the detective's sharp reply. 

"It hurts like hell, Simon, but I'm gonna live," Jim struggled to keep the tremor out of his voice as his shoulder protested his agitation. "The doc told me what I needed to know," he added. "So cut to the chase and tell me what happened?" 

Taken aback by Ellison's stubborn reaction, Simon settled down on the chair beside the hospital bed, eyeing his detective carefully. He noticed the tension and the fine tremors that ran through the man's body. Banks sighed. "We don't know yet who shot you. Probably Kincaid." 

"Yes." Jim confirmed with a short nod. "He hated my guts. What else?" 

"A Special Forces team stormed the bank and freed the remaining hostages," Simon informed. Ellison's reaction surprised him. 

"What?!" Struggling to rise, Jim gasped in pain. 

"Jim!" Alarmed, Simon moved quickly to calm the man. "Take it easy, will you?" He touched Ellison's arm in a reassuring gesture. "It's over, Jim. Kincaid and his man are going down for this." 

The pain slowly subsided as Jim listened to Simon's tale. "How many casualties?" he asked, daring to hear the heartbeat's name. 

"The hostages survived. The others, as you knew, are dead, Jim." 

"How many of Kincaid's men?" Jim clarified. 

Simon raised his eyebrows. "Of...? Three. They opened fire and..." 

"Do you know their names?" 

"Filmore, Collins and Nelson," Banks replied. "Why?" he had to ask. 

Jim closed his eyes as relief rushed through him. The heartbeat was still here. The detective felt a strange feeling of peace enveloping him, the knowledge soothing his aching shoulder like a magic touch. 

"Jim? You okay?" Simon's voice swung with concern again. 

"I'm fine, Simon. I'm fine," Jim reassured. "Where are Kincaid and the others?" 

Banks shrugged. "Jail, for now. The DA is going to press charges, they'll come down for questioning, the whole nine yards. You know the drill." 

Jim nodded. "Can you bring me their files?" 

"What for?" Simon frowned. Ellison truly behaved odd. 

"I'm still on the case, right?" 

The piercing blue eyes looked at Banks, daring him to decline his request. Simon had come to know this glance and he knew Jim wouldn't let it go. He might be out of commission for a while but he wasn't defenseless. Like a wounded animal Ellison would fight until the last breath ended his life. 

"Right. I'll bring the files tomorrow, okay?" 

"Tonight." 

Tonight it was. 

* * *

His shoulder throbbed mercilessly. He'd refused the painkillers because he wanted to have a clear mind when Simon brought the files. Breathing deeply through nose and mouth, Jim stared down at the folder sitting on his lap. He'd sorted through the files, throwing away those that didn't matter. 

With his right hand, Ellison opened the folder. As the familiar face came into focus, Jim held his breath. Just like he remembered. A wild mane of curls provided the hippie-look, the blue eyes inhabiting knowledge and mischief. He looked like a teenager rather than an adult. 

Jim shook his head as he began to roam through the file. 

Blair Sandburg, a kid and a terrorist. 

Ellison refused to believe that. 

Chapter Eight 

A tremor shook the young man's body, partly from cold, partly from stress. Sighing deeply, Blair Sandburg, officially a criminal _again_ , snuggled deeper into the strong arms of his lover. Kincaid grunted something, then he spat out a strand of dark curls that'd come into his line of breathing. 

"Fucking hair," the terrorist muttered and pushed the curly head away. "Stay in your own corner, kid." 

"Sorry," Sandburg whispered, afraid if he spoke to loud, the others would wake. 

"Cut it off as soon as we get out of here, you hear me?" His lover grunted again, rolling to his side and leaving a shivering bundle behind. 

//As soon as we get out of here.// Blair repeated bitterly. How did Kincaid plan on doing that? They were in jail, holding cell or whatever this rats hole was called these days. For his perspective he was light years away from the next hair dresser and too close to being forever put behind bars. Sandburg shivered again longing for Kincaid's strong body to hold him, to warm him and to shield him. 

Spooning up behind his lover, Blair wrapped his hands around the strong middle. As he tried to absorb as much body heat as possible, his thoughts travelled back to the events of the last few days. 

He'd shot a cop. No good-luck charm would help him out of that mess, not talking about his karma being totally fucked up for the next one hundred years - at least. He'd one nothing wrong, a tiny voice whispered, reassuring him that he'd done the right thing. Shooting a cop? Another voice returned. A human being? How low could someone sink these days... If he hadn't pulled the trigger, Kincaid would've killed Ellison the next time he saw him. So, he was simply injured - through HIS hands, damnit it! - and not able to come back to be killed then. What a logic! Blair tightened the hold on his lover, the steady rhythm of Kincaid's breathing calm his fluttering nerves. 

Jim Ellison was a cop and human being. Shuddering, Sandburg closed his eyes. The nightly sounds of his surroundings engulfed him, the mental image of Ellison's body collapsing to the ground followed him into the restless sleep. 

* * *

The pretty blonde nurse knowingly rolled her eyes at Banks, as the black police captain entered the hospital room shortly after 9 a.m.. 

"How's our favourite patient doing today?" he asked her jokingly, only to receive a stern glance out of her green eyes. 

"Mr. Ellison thinks he's strong enough to leave the hospital today," she informed, shaking her head as she went by and muttering something about 'men' and 'children'. 

Jim already waited for him, an impatient expression on his face. His good arm rested on the small plastic table where breakfast had been served minutes ago. His fingers drummed on one of the yellow manila folders Simon had brought the night before. "I need to get out of here today, Simon," Ellison began without a greeting. 

"Sure, let's go to the Jags game tonight," Simon smiled, then sobered. "Jim, you can hardly stand on your own two feet let alone..." 

"Simon!" Jim harshly interrupted his superior. "I know how we can get to Kincaid." 

Totally unimpressed by the statement, Banks sat down and watched the detective closely. "The evidence speaks for...," he started, only to be interrupted again. 

"Forget the evidence!" Jim shook his head, his face determined. "If we get one of his men on our side we can use that information against that SOB." 

"The Sunrise Patriots are a brotherhood, Jim. Nobody's going to tell you anything," Simon replied. 

Jim indicated the file in front of him. "He will." 

Frowning, Banks leaned forward. "Who's he?" he took the bait, knowing already he'd lost the battle. 

Opening the folder, Jim pointed at the picture of a young man. "Name's Blair Sandburg, born 8/5/1969 in Sacramento, CA, mother Naomi Sandburg, father unknown. He was listed as an anthropology student at Rainier working on his doctorate. One year ago he was arrested because a package of drugs had been found in his office. He'd claimed the package came from a indigineous tribe in Kenya and that it was perfectly harmless. Whatever it was, it violated the restrictions on the import on certain US goods and the kid went down for that." 

"So?" Simon scanned the file confirming the facts Jim had just stated. "The guy got a criminal record then. Maybe he hooked up with Kincaid in prison." 

Jim nodded. "Probably." 

"What makes you so sure he's gonna blow the whistle on Kincaid?" 

The patient went silent for a moment. "Kincaid's an asshole, Simon. I saw how he treated Sandburg in there. The kid's got no... real reason to be with him. If we give him the chance, he'll go for it." 

Banks leafed through the file. "Or maybe not, Jim. After all you don't know the man at all. It could be that he uses the image as the innocent bystander just to fool people like you." 

"He's isn't like Kincaid and his goons, captain," Jim tried again, recalling the few hours he'd observed Sandburg. "He's smart; I questioned once if he was a teacher and he...," Jim shrugged and pointed to the file. "It makes sense now. Student at Rainier. He's got potential. Kincaid only uses him for his own sick pleasures." At Banks' questioning glance he added. "It seems he and Kincaid are lovers though I truly doubt that there's love involved." 

"Jesus, Jim!" Simon exclaimed. "If that's true, you'll never be able to draw him to our side. Loyalty is one thing, loyalty mixed with love - impossible. You know how the saying goes. 'Love blinds you'. " He shook his head for emphasis. 

"There's love and there's love," Jim returned, almost bitterly. "I'm sure there's more to it than it meets the eye." 

"Why do you care about him at all?" Simon questioned when he placed the Sandburg file back on the small plastic table. 

Jim swallowed, not ready to reveal the strange episodes he'd suffered. "If it weren't for him, Kincaid would've killed me," he stated simply. 

"Maybe he was smart enough to remember you were a cop, Jim," came the quick reply. 

"Damnit, Simon, I was there! I saw...," Ellison trailed off. Frustrated at his superiors disbelief, Jim clenched his jaws, the strong muscles twitching in dismay. 

Simon sighed. "Okay. Let's say we can trust your instincts. How do you wanna do that?" 

"I go and talk to him." 

"Jim, you're hardly strong enough to walk," the captain protested knowing already that he'd lost the battle. 

* * *

Simon's words echoed through his head. //Jim, you're hardly strong enough to walk.// Ellison would've bit off his tongue to admit it but as he heavily sat down on the hard, comfortable plastic chair, Jim would give half his fortune for a bed and a handful of painkillers. God, he was exhausted! His shoulder hurt, the pain radiating through his body reminding him with every movement that Simon had been right. 

The white walls reminded him of a psych ward. 

"You okay, Jim?" Joel Taggart asked, placing a pitcher of water and glasses in front of his colleague. 

Nodding tensely, Jim leaned back in the chair. "I'm fine," he replied curtly. 

Taggart shook his head, seeing the sweat on the other man's forehead, sensing the obvious pain he was in. "How did you manage to get out of the hospital, man? You look like death warmed over." 

"I'll be alright, Joel," Jim sighed, too tired to maintain the posture of a hard man. "Just don't slap me on the shoulder, you hear me?" 

The bomb squad captain shook his head. "You're a stubborn son of a bitch." He reached out but reconsidered and let his hand fall to his side again. "If you need anything, you know, coffee, smoke, a gurney, just say the word. You know where we are." 

Jim tried a weak grin when Taggart disappeared. "Thanks, Joel." Closing his eyes, Jim struggled to relax his aching body. 

A few minutes later, the sound of a familiar heartbeat drummed through his head. Jim's eyes popped open, startled, thinking he'd nodded off to sleep and missed the kid's entry. However, the interrogation room was still empty. The rhythmic melody came closer, almost too loud for his ears. It was a good sound though. For some unfathomable reason Ellison felt peace and warmth flowing through his body whenever he sensed the soothing heartbeat. Other sounds that he wasn't supposed to hear scared the hell out of him, but this one relaxed his tense muscles. It was a good sound. 

Soon a voice joined the heartbeat. "I want my lawyer," Sandburg demanded, as the door opened and he entered the interrogation room. "I have a right --," The young man stopped dead in his tracks at Jim's sight. 

"He's on the way, Sandburg," Ellison answered watching the display of shock, fear and anger flashing across the kid's face. 

Mutely, Sandburg walked over to the table. He stared at Ellison, his gaze travelled from the older man's face to the immobilized arm and back to the detective's eyes. 

"We won't need those," Jim said, wincing a little as he pointed to the handcuffs the guard was about to fasten around Sandburg's wrists. 

"It's procedure, sir," the guard replied coldly. He connected the cuffs to the table and checked the locks. "Anything else, sir?" At Jim's shake of head, he left the room. 

Jim turned his attention back to Sandburg. "You know there's a saying you meet everyone at least twice in your life," he began. The younger man looked almost as bad as Jim felt. His hair was pulled back, the curls hardly reigned by the elastic band. He looked tired and, if Jim interpreted the signs correctly, scared as hell. 

"I want my lawyer," Blair repeated. His voice was hoarse and he still stared at the detective following every movement. 

Jim nodded. "As I said, he's on his way. I wanted to talk to you alone for a moment." 

Sandburg actually chuckled. "What about the proper procedure?" He yanked at the handcuffs. His eyes widened when Jim winced at the metallic sound. 

The detective recovered quickly. "I don't intend to push you into a corner and offer you a cheap deal." 

"No?" Sandburg raised his eyebrows in surprise. In a lower voice, he added, "You wouldn't be the first." 

"No," Jim confirmed. "I just wanted to talk to you." 

"About what?" Sandburg looked around the windowless interrogation room. "Nice weather outside, huh?" 

Ellison ignored the mockery. "Are you okay?" he asked. 

"Are you playing the good cop here?" Sandburg retorted bitterly. "Where's your bad buddy?" Challenging, he stared at the one-way mirror behind Jim. 

"How's your arm?" Jim tried a different approach. 

"I'm fine." Blair pressed his lips together, obviously struggling with his next words. "I guess I should say 'thanks', right?" The thin line curved to a small smile. "Thanks. I'm--glad you came when you did." 

//That's a start//. Jim thought. "It seems your--friends are not the most skilled people when it comes to stuff like that." He kept his face neutral, carefully choosing his words. 

Blair stiffed immediately. "They are the best," he corrected, as his feature grew hard. "You don't know them; you only see what you and your cop friends think is wrong." 

"I think you know the difference between right and wrong," Jim stated calmly. 

"Oh, I do?" Blair grinned, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "Then how come I'm in here? Maybe I was misguided and forgot the difference? Good is bad and wrong is right?" 

"Maybe you did." 

Sandburg shook his head. "No, man, you are wrong!" he accused vehemently. 

Jim opened the file he'd brought from the hospital. "Well, then tell me why a small drug dealer hooks up with Kincaid?" 

The expressive eyes looked at him in confusion. "I don't know what you're talking about." His gaze went to the open file and his breath caught in his throat as he recognized the upside down-version of his own mug shot. "How did you get that?" His voice swung with hostility. 

Jim allowed himself to smile at the innocent question. "I'm a cop," he answered. "This was my bedtime reading last night. Interesting story," he praised, moving his lips as if reading the facts again. "Sounds like a bad luck strain to me. Drugs, arrested, sent to prison. Now this." 

"Glad I could entertain you," Sandburg muttered. 

"Impressive medical history," Jim commented, focussing his attention back to the young criminal. "Always clumsy, huh? Sandburg?" He waited for a reaction and it came - faster than lightening. 

The handcuffs jingled again, as Blair stood up abruptly. "Fuck you!" His right hand tore at the metal cuff. "Get me out of here!" 

Coldly, Jim shook his head. "Not like this, buddy!" he said harshly. "Manners might be lost on your _kind_ and I might have to teach you some." His blues eyes pierced through the air. "SIT. DOWN." He noticed the tremors that ran through the kid's body. Now, he was the bad cop and Blair was afraid. Of him or of...what? 

Chapter Nine 

Animals are most dangerous when they're wounded. And like a cornered animal Blair Sandburg stared at the detective, fear radiating off him. Fear and the anger of realizing there was no way out for him. 

Jim spoke the words out loud: "There's no way out for you, Chief." Pitying the younger man's fate he added, "A smart kid like you should know better." 

"What the fuck do you know about me?" Sandburg challenged, his eyes blazing fire blue. 

Jim went silent for moment and watched his opponent carefully. Mentally he shook his head again, questioning himself for the umpteenth time why Sandburg hooked up with Sunrise Patriots. Apparently the kid didn't want to listen to him, didn't want to reason with the cruel reality that surrounded him. So, Ellison did what he could do best. Pushing his emotions aside, the hardboiled soldier came to life. 

"I don't give a shit about your life's story. That's history anyway. You fucked it up yourself, buddy. Now you pay the price." Jim's voice was calm, almost menacing. 

"I already paid the price, man," Blair spat, the handcuffs jingled again as he tried to push away the mop of curls. "It can't get worse, so save the threats for someone who cares." 

"Oh, I think you do care," Jim insisted, leaning forward as much as his aching shoulder allowed. "If not now, then maybe tomorrow you'll change your mind. When your buddy Garrett Kincaid gets tired of you and sings like a canary to get his, and only _his_ neck, out of the sling." 

Blair actually laughed at this. "You are the one who's wrong. Kincaid ..." 

"...loves you?" Jim finished, and then made a dismissive gesture. "Yeah, right. We heard that before, haven't we?" 

"...is loyal to me, loyal to his men and to his cause," Sandburg corrected without blinking. 

Jim nodded, as if understanding. "Tell me one thing, Chief, what does he hold against you?" 

"What?" The kid's voice quivered slightly, only a minute tremor but Jim heard it anyway. 

The detective gathered his files and slowly stood up. Pain cursed through his shoulder as he slowly made his way to the door. He knocked twice. 

"Times up, Sandburg." Jim waited patiently while the guard came in to unlock Sandburg's cuffs and take him back to the cell. As the younger man passed by, head bowed and looking at the floor, Jim whispered. "You heard me." 

Sandburg raised his head to meet the other man's eyes. His lips moved mutely, not bothering to give sound to the distinct message he wanted to deliver. Then he was gone and Jim leaned heavily against the wall. 

"Go to hell," he repeated Sandburg's word. He sighed. "Yours or mine?" 

* * *

"That certainly went well," Simon Banks mocked. With a shake of his head he watched Ellison's grimace of pain. "Tell me, Jim, what the hell did you accomplish by this?" He gestured towards the bandaged shoulder. "Aside from exhausting yourself." 

Jim inhaled deeply, his throbbing shoulder sending waves of pain through his entire body. "He's fighting, Simon," he explained. "Whatever demon is chasing him, he's started to realize that maybe he chose the wrong company." 

"And you think that demon is Kincaid?" Simon poured himself a cup of coffee and placed a second steaming cup in front of his detective. 

Jim tried a one-sided shrug. "Probably. That must be something else because this kid seems to be just too smart to be involved." 

"We had this conversation at the hospital already," Simon said. "You said they were lovers. As odd that might seem to anyone else, maybe it's love that keeps them together." 

"No," Jim shook his head and slowly bent forward to take a sip of this coffee. It feels wrong to me." 

"It feels wrong to you," the dark skinned captain repeated. "Do you care to explain that?" 

Another tentative shrug accompanied Jim's words. "I don't know, captain. There is something about this kid that... " Fishing for the right words Jim paused for a moment. "Do you remember that I asked you for some time off because I was feeling strange, seeing things?" 

Simon nodded. 

"When I was in that bank I acted strange at times; heard things I couldn't possibly hear. But whenever the kid showed up I felt fine." Jim sighed. "I've never felt anything like it. Like we connected... and...," the detective shook his head. "I can't explain it. Like we clicked." 

Simon frowned. "Don't you think it's just some kind of wishful thinking on your part because you like the man?" He waved his hand. "Like a protective instinct?" 

"I don't know, Simon," Jim shook his head again, remembering the peace he'd felt when he was around Sandburg. "I really don't know. Maybe I AM imagining things. All I know is that he doesn't belong there." 

* * *

The night sounds crept into his cell. Blair Sandburg shuddered as he tried to find a comfortable position on the small, hard bed. Prison or jail, both sent shivers down his spine. He was alone and the sounds around him whispered promises of his worst nightmares. Squeezing his eyes shut he rolled onto his side, the bed's rusty frame squeaking in dismay. 

Relief had flooded through his body at the sight of the cop waiting for him in the interrogation room. He was alive and seemingly doing okay. Jim Ellison was okay with his arm supported by sling. Blair sighed deeply. The injury was minor, wasn't it? The bullet must've hit his arm or shoulder, nothing to be sentenced to death for. Sighing again, Sandburg turned around again. 

"You awake, kiddo?" The low voice wavered through the darkness of his cell, speaking sweetly into his ear. He wasn't alone! 

Opening his eyes, Blair squinted until his eyes adjusted. Shadows danced around, forming bars, corridor, door and the shape of his lover. In the neighboring cell Garrett Kincaid leaned against the bars, his white teeth visible as he smiled. 

"Garrett," Blair whispered the name. Swiftly he got up from his uncomfortable sleeping post and walked over to where Kincaid stood. Without saying anything, he reached through the metal bars, hugging his lover in an awkward embrace. Feeling his body heat almost brought tears to his eyes. He'd missed that. 

"I missed you, my man," Kincaid returned the embrace, trying his best to inhale the herbal scent of the younger man's hair. 

Blair just nodded, pressing his face into the bars to maximize the body contact. 

"You okay?" Kincaid inquired gently, enjoying the first stirrings of arousal as his arms roamed through the mass of curls. "I know this is not your kind of place," he said. 

Nodding again, small tremors began shaking Sandburg's body at the implications of Kincaid's words. He tightened the hold on his lover, even though the unyielding steel bars pressed into his face. "Missed you so much," he mumbled, giving in to the sensation of Kincaid's strong hands massaging his scalp. 

"Did they search you, too?" The question was met with a sharp intake of breath. The humiliation of a strip-search was part of being a prisoner of war. Still, to imagine his young lover had to undergo such an intimate examination ...sent a spike of lust through his own body. Too bad he hadn't witnessed it. "Bastards," Kincaid spat out loud. 

"How did the interrogation go?" Kincaid asked further while his hands moved downward until they reached Blair's butt. The jeans-clad rear felt good in his hands, and the terrorist leader began kneading the firm flesh. 

"Okay," Blair responded, a small moan escaping his lips. His groin was pressed against the unmoving bars. The tingling started. "Didn't say anything." 

"I know you wouldn't," Kincaid praised. In the confined space he pulled the man's body even closer. With his right hand, he groped deeper, tracing the shape of Blair's ass. The buttocks were tight, quivering slightly. "Did they tell you anything about that cop?" 

"No, nothing." The lie came smoothly over his lips. Without breaking the contact, Blair reached down and opened the fly of his pants. At the same moment he felt Kincaid's hands relocating and quickly sliding into the back of his pants. "You feel so good," Blair moaned. The callused fingertips massaged his ass cheeks. 

Why did he lie? 

"What did they want to know?" The questions continued, as did the sensual journey. 

Gasping as Kincaid's hands parted his cheeks, Blair fumbled for the man's own trousers. "The usual." He felt the fingers teasing his opening. "About you, about the cause..." 

Kincaid pursed his lips. "They didn't understand," he concluded, taking a moment to retreat from the promise land of Blair's butt to wet his fingers. 

"They're morons," Blair confirmed. One hand still holding tight onto his lover, Blair pulled out Kincaid's cock, stroking it expertly. "You feel so good," he moaned referring to the strong flesh in his hand and to the two fingers that had just invaded his behind. "So good...," he pressed himself against the bars as the lack of sufficient lubrication made the finger-fuck a bit uncomfortable. Roughly, the fingers moved and scissored, pushing him forward. Above him Kincaid grunted in satisfaction. 

"You're my man, you know that, do you?" 

"Always," Blair murmured, giving the swelling member another squeeze. He altered between stroking and pumping, enjoying the sounds of passion his actions caused. "Love you, man." 

"Only mine," Kincaid breathed. "Turn around," he demanded, removing the fingers from Sandburg's anus. 

The younger man complied. Moments later, he shivered when his exposed rear came into contact with the cold bars. "It's cold, man," he complained with a smile in his voice. 

Kincaid reached around and engulfed Sandburg's cock. "Let me make you hot," the terrorist cooed into his partner's ear. His tongue darted out to lick at the earlobe. He played with Sandburg's earrings, whirling his tongue around the little loops. "Getting warmer?" he hissed, his teeth catching the jewelry and pulling tenderly. 

"So good," Blair moaned. Kincaid's erect cook now nudged his ass cheeks, rubbing along his cleft with increasing speed. "Want to feel you inside me..." Sandburg said, his head feverish with desire. 

Kincaid neglected the straining member for a moment to cradle Sandburg's balls. "Not enough room, kid," he groaned, the tip of his own cock demanding entry. He pulled Blair closer, while he gently rolled the heavy balls through his fingers. Again his cock teased Blair's opening. Gaining access for a few seconds, both men moaned in unison at the sybaritic sensation. 

"Need you so much," Blair voiced his passion breathlessly. 

Kincaid smiled, pressing his groin against Blair's ass as much as he could. "I'll get you out of here, kiddo," he promised, licking the pierced ear again. 

"Harder," Sandbur gasped, torn between the touch of delicate hands on his genitals and the fervent pressure from behind. "Make me come... let me...ccome," he pleaded, his arousal soon reaching its peak. 

Kincaid grunted, the friction becoming intense, almost unbearable. "What do you call me?" he questioned, his own breath coming in short gasps as his climax approached. "Holy Protector?" 

Throwing his head back, Blair opened his mouth, inhaling deeply. "B--blessed, man, Blessed Protector." He turned his head as much as he could to look at his lover. In the dim light of their cells, all he could see was the shape of a shadow. "The Chinese think that - when someone saves your life, he becomes your Blessed Protector" 

"I like that," Kincaid sighed. His hips moved faster, allowing his cock to increase the nudging, poking and probing of Blair's behind. 

Despite the confined space, their mouths met, merging in a fierce kiss. As their tongues duelled, Kincaid climaxed! He shot his load against Sandburg's cheeks and in between. Biting Blair's lips in the reign of passion, Kincaid immediately loosened his grip on Blair's privates. "Ahhhhhh," he grunted satisfied. As he withdrew his hands, Sandburg's stopped him, covering the retreating limbs with his own. 

"Please...," Blair panted. His voice shook with unsatisfied desire. "Make me..." 

He should've known better. Kincaid fastened his pants and gave the still exposed rear a generous pat. "Thanks, man, you're fantastic!" The praise rang through Blair's ears as the warm body behind him disappeared. 

"Good night, kiddo." 

"Garrett?" Blair called the name, slowing stroking his still erect cock. He wanted to come so badly that it hurt. Physical pain from the impending orgasm, emotional pain from the new rejection surged through is body. 

"What?" The man's voice was sleepy already as he tried to find a comfortable spot on the bed. 

Blair stared down at his hands, watching in fascination as the organ swelled even more. "Why am I not good enough for you?" he asked in a strained voice. The cock danced in his hand, preparing for the final stroke. 

Kincaid laughed quietly. "We have a deal, remember? I fulfill my part, you do yours." 

Blair stilled his motions. Kincaid was right, wasn't he? Slowly, each movement sending a stab of pleasure through his groin, Sandburg made his way back to his own bed. The mattress squeaked as he rolled onto his side. His cock still throbbed inside his pants, demanding release, begging for a loving caress. Slowly Blair reached down. The touch of his own hand ignited the fire all over again. Tears burnt in his eyes as he stroked himself, imagining the strong and yet gentle hands of someone who cared about him. His favourite fantasy, a painful fairy tale. 

Chapter Ten 

Rain pelted down. The rhythmic melody of rain drops hitting the balcony windows echoed through his loft apartment. A steaming cup of coffee in his left hand, Jim Ellison stood by the windows. He stared down at the bay. The wild pattern of bigger and smaller circles made his head spin slightly as the rain hit the water. Mesmerized by the play of nature, the detective jumped on his train of thoughts. 

At what point exactly had this damned case spun toward disaster? When had he lost control? 

"Probably the moment when I went into Simon's office to request a vacation," Ellison murmured to himself. The quiet words resounded in the large room, drumming on his ear drums like the rain on the bay. 

Jim winced. It was happening again. Everything seemed too loud for his ears. Everything was too bright for his eyes, too spicy for his taste buts. Too fucking arousing for his private parts rubbing against the inside of his pants. The smell of the sewers too much for his nose. The detective gagged, suddenly identifying a few unpleasant, repulsing odors. The motion spilled the hot coffee over his hand. Jim's knees buckled at the burning pain on the back of his hand, his breath coming in short pants. He opened his mouth, trying to inhale deeply. The queasiness in his stomach subsided slowly, returning with a vengeance each time he took a breath. Gasping and still on his knees, the man leaned against the balcony doors, the wooden frame supporting his tall figure. He pressed his face against the cold glass surface, looking at the rain. 

Going into Simon's office that afternoon a week ago had been the first mistake. He should've gone without a word, leaving without notice. No questions, no pitiful looks, no hostage situation. 

No Blair Sandburg. 

What kind of negotiator was he anyway? He hadn't accomplished anything. Kincaid had killed the hostages, like birds on a wire, like prey to be hunted down. Only this time the prey had been sitting in a corner, huddled together in fear for their already lost lives. A fine negotiator he was. What had he wanted to prove? That he was still at the top of the game? Still the hero that had returned from Peru years ago? Same hero that suddenly started seeing, hearing, tasting, smelling, and feeling things he wasn't supposed to see, hear, taste, smell and feel? 

Jim's sagged against the window as the orchestra of sounds surrounded him. The colourful rain drops added the rhythm to the melody. Rainbow colours, Ellison thought dreamingly. Red, blue, green, yellow, violet and purple. So beautiful...so mesmerizing. 

Red, blue, green, yellow, violet and purple. 

* * *

The telephone receiver hit the cradle, the dark hand still circling the white plastic. "Plummer, my office!" Banks barked, his grip on the telephone increasing. "NOW!" he added as no reaction was forthcoming. So much for your feeling, Ellison, Simon gritted his teeth around the unlit cigar. 

The door to his office opened. "Sir?" Carolyn Plummer looked at her superior. 

"Where the hell is Ellison?" Simon shouted. 

"I don't know, sir," Plummer replied. "He left early, didn't say where he..." 

"Find him," the Captain cut in. "Immediately." 

The forensics Chief nodded, then hesitated before she left the office. "Simon? What...?" she trailed off. 

Simon took a deep breath. "Kincaid and his men escaped. They were transferred to a Federal prison and they - just ESCAPED!" he almost screamed the last word. "Killed their guards. According to the Feds they left a blood trail and are probably already across the border." 

Carolyn paled. "Oh my God! How? I mean..." 

Banks shook his head. Finally he let go off the telephone. Instead he took the cigar out of his mouth. "Get Ellison down here." 

Seeing the look in his eyes, Carolyn nodded and quickly left the office, already dialling the loft's number on her cell phone. 

* * *

His lungs demanded precious oxygen but he ran. His legs threatened to give out but he ran. His vision never cleared long enough to see the muddy path in front of him but he ran. The rain poured down, making maintaining his speed almost impossible. Sliding on wet ground, he crashed to one knee, then struggled to get up again. There was no way back and there was no way out. The leather jacket protected his body from chills of the fast approaching night. He couldn't remember owning a leather jacket, but it felt good, keeping him warm when nothing else would. 

Where they following him? Would they make the effort to hunt him down? Why bother? He was the weakest link in their chain of warriors. They should be glad to get rid of him. Resuming the break neck chase through the forest, he almost laughed. Sure they'd come after him. If not 'they', he would. Kincaid would never let him go. He was too proud to allow such a defeat. And, after all, he'd just violated their deal. 

Blair Sandburg stumbled as his exhausted body refused to cooperate. His legs gave out and he kneeled on the ground, gasping for air. He couldn't do it anymore. He had had a life once. He wanted it back, knowing it was impossible. He was a criminal of the lowest kind. A terrorist who killed innocent people. He was tired of running. All he wanted to do was lying down and sleep. Being warm would be nice, too. Being not afraid anymore, even nicer. A joyless laugh escaped his throat. Everyone was his enemy. Kincaid hated his guts now, the police wanted him in jail - it was a devil's circle. He had no choice. 

Nevertheless, Sandburg inhaled deeply and stared running again. Somewhere in the woods, a wolf howled. 

* * *

So beautiful. The kaleidoscope of colours danced in front of his eyes, imprinting their gorgeous image forever in his head. Red, blue, green, yellow, violet and purple. Ellison reached out to touch the rainbow. His hand connected with the solid surface of the balcony window, the unexpected pain jerking him awake! 

"What the fuck...," Jim shook his head, staring at his hurting hand, then out of the window where the rain had left big puddles on the balcony. Cobwebs clouded his head. 

It was dark outside. 

Puddles on the balcony. It hadn't been raining that long, Jim mused. He groaned softly as his muscles protested any movement. His injured shoulder hurt from leaning against the window frame. How long...? The detective searched the illuminated clock on the VCR. 

11.45 p.m. 

Impossible! 

Jim rubbed at his eyes, supporting his aching arm. Another look confirmed the first assessment. It was almost midnight. And he just come home from the doctor's office when he'd been given a clean bill of health - give or take a few minor aches and pains. How could he lose more than 8 hours? Did he fall asleep? He remembered the rain and now there were puddles on the balcony. 

"Pretty rain drops," he murmured and struggled to his feet. A wave of dizziness assaulted him. He swayed, moving quickly to grab the back of the couch for support. Standing there, Ellison took a deep breath. In front of his closed eyes, the world rocked gently, like a boat at sea. 

"Oh my god, help me," Jim whispered, not knowing who else to address. The image of rainbow colours rushed back to him. He'd seen each unique pixel the rain drops had painted his world with. Millions or billions of different colours. Every molecule had found its way to his brain leaving a clear imprint. This is not possible," the detective told himself as he slowing walked into the kitchen. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the blinking red light of the answering machine. It indicated four calls. How could he sleep through the ringing of a phone? 

Switching on the coffee-maker, Jim reached out to press the 'play' button on the answering machine. His hands shook. 

~ beep ~ 

"Jim? Carolyn. Simon needs to see you asap. It's very urgent. Come to the station." 

Jim glanced at the clock again. 12.05 a.m. How urgent was urgent? Whatever it was Simon needed him for, maybe it was done already? 

~ beep ~ 

"Damnit, Ellison! Simon's mad as hell. Where are you? Call me or him." 

That sounded pretty urgent, Jim mused. His look travelled back to the clock. He couldn't have just lost 8 hours because the rain drops looked so pretty, right? The unnerving thought came back to the surface. He couldn't have. 

~ beep ~ 

Carolyn sounded more than frustrated this time. How many time had passed between each call? Half an hour? 2 hours? 5 minutes? 

"Come on, Ellison! I know you're there. It's not funny anymore. Lives are at stake. You cannot disappear like that. <sigh> Anyway, Jim, please, when you listen to this, call me immediately. Kincaid's lose again." 

Jim froze at her last words. 

~ beep ~ 

Simon's voice boomed through the loft. 

"Ellison! Get your ass down here! Kincaid and his buddies escaped this afternoon. 5 people dead already. Your brilliant theory didn't work, detective. I expect you to call me when you hear this. Understood?" 

How far could one get in 8 hours? 

Jim picked up the phone and dialled. "Ellison," he spoke into the receiver, surprised how rough his voice sounded. 

"Where the hell have you been, Detective?" Banks' shouted at the other end of the line. "Plummer and I left messages on your machine." 

Ignoring the question, Jim asked: "What's the situation, sir?" 

Banks laughed dryly. "The situation, Jim? During transfer Kincaid and his followers escaped. Everyone, you hear me? Even your friendly little terrorist." Sarcasm laced the loud voice. Then he took on a serious tone. "The guards are dead, as are two female tourists. It seems like they're heading north." 

"To go into Canada?" Jim said, thinking. "How far can they get? Did they claim a vehicle?" 

"Not that we know about, but it's highly possible," Simon replied. "The Canadian authorities have been notified." 

Jim nodded. "I'm coming to the station right now, Captain." He swallowed. "Simon, I don't know what to say. I was --" 

"Forget it, Jim," Simon brushed off the apology. "Get down here as soon as you can. That's all I ask." 

"Yes, sir." Disconnecting the call, Jim put the receiver back on the cradle. 

They had escaped and killed people. Everyone. Including Sandburg. Jim closed his eyes briefly. The coffee-maker bubbled gently, squeezing the last bit of water into the pot. In the distance thunder started rolling. The kid seemed so innocent. So lost among the criminals. Associating terrorist activities with the gentle eyes and the friendly face felt so wrong. 

The thunder came closer, predicting a stormy night. Soon the first lightening would strike. Another, subtle noise reached his ears. A pounding equivalent to the clapping thunder. Jim's eyes popped open. Reaching behind himself, he found his gun resting in the holster at his back. His finger closed around the cold metal, pulling the weapon and releasing the safety clip in one swift motion. Listening to the approaching thunder and the underlying sound, Ellison waited a moment, counting the seconds as the drum in his ears increased. He aimed the gun. His other hand engulfed the door knob. 

Closer, almost there... 

Three, two...one. 

"Hold it right there!" Jim shouted, as he opened the front door. The wooden piece crashed against the wall. Lightening illuminated the loft and at the same moment thunder crashed, the sound reverberating off the walls. 

"Don't shoot! Please!" Arms in the air, Blair Sandburg stared at the gun, wideeyed. "Please!" he whispered, wincing as another clap of thunder shook the building. 

As fast as lightening would strike, Ellison reached out and grabbed the young man by the collar. He pushed the young man back into the hallway. "Don't move, pal," he hissed. 

"Ow," was the only reply he got as Ellison turned the younger man around and pushed him into the wall. 

"Get your hands behind your back." 

"I'm not going anywhere, man," Sandburg said in a low voice that barely made it over the roaring thunder. 

"I decide what you do," Ellison corrected and secured the man's wrist with a set of handcuffs. "You have the right to remain silent. Everything you do..." 

Chapter Eleven 

The voice was icy. Gone was the reassuring smile, the concern - the reason why Blair had sought refuge at 852 Prospect in the first place. 

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you so desire and cannot afford one, an attorney will be appointed to you at no charge. You have the right to have an attorney present before any and all questioning. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you? Do you give up your right to an attorney? Do you wish to make a statement?" 

Sandburg closed his eyes, gasping in surprise when Ellison's hands roamed over his body, checking him for weapons. The pressure of the gun left his side for a second as he was roughly turned around. Ellison pushed him against the wall again, his cuffed hands scraped painfully against the concrete. The gun was pointed at his chest again. 

"I'm not stupid," Blair replied simply, after the detective stated his rights. 

"You're not really smart either, Chief," Jim retorted, pulling him forward. "Let's go." Manhandling him into the apartment, Ellison closed the door with his foot. He gestured with the gun. "Move it." 

"Take it easy, man," Blair protested as he stumbled into the loft. "I'm not going anywhere." 

"No, you sure as hell won't be going anywhere," Jim confirmed, another push accompanying his words. "Over there!" He pointed to the wooden beams near the kitchen counter. Reaching the spot, Ellison quickly opened the handcuffs. "Come on, Chief, don't wait for an invitation, hug it!" 

Blair stared at the pillar in disbelief. "I said, I'm not going anywhere." Nevertheless he engulfed the beam with both arms, clasping his hands. At the same moment, the cold metal imprisoned his wrists again. 

"I never believe criminals, kid," Jim replied dryly, testing the security of the cuffs. "Make yourself comfortable," he added while walking over to the telephone. 

"You're not very funny," Blair spat. Frustration and anger swung in his voice. This wasn't the way he'd thought it would go. He'd known Ellison as a compassionate man, he'd thought he could trust him, he'd thought he'd be safe. Sighing, Sandburg leaned his head against the wood, contemplating the idea to just slide down and sit on the floor. He was tired, physically and emotionally. And he was cold. 

Punching in Simon's number, Jim waited for the captain to pick up the phone with his usual bellow. The phone was dead. 

"Damn!" The detective cursed. His look went to the windows where the thunderstorm raged outside. Fumbling for the cell phone, Jim wasn't convinced it would work either. 

"The person you've called is temporarily unavailable," an amicable female voice announced confirming his thoughts. 

"This is just great," Jim mumbled, returning the phone to its station. 

"It's hell out there," Blair said from his prison at the beam. "No wonder the phone's not working." 

Jim nodded absent-mindedly, as his gaze returned to his captive. Sandburg was resting his head against the pillar. A small puddle of rainwater pooled at his feet, his pants dripping gently. It was then that Jim saw shivers shaking the younger man's body. Considering the journey he must've taken through the storm - A tear in the knee and blood from a gash - Jim suddenly felt like an jerk. 

Restoring the gun in the holster at his back, Jim sighed quietly. "I guess it's only the two of us then." Without another word he made his way to the bathroom, only to return moments later with two towels in his hands. Deciding that Sandburg didn't pose a threat - and if he did, he could easily overpower him - Jim released the handcuffs. 

"Here, get dry," the detective said, handing over the towels. 

The sudden mood swing made him weary, but Sandburg grabbed the thick towels gratefully. "Thanks," he murmured, rubbing the towel over his long, wet curls. 

"Want some coffee to get warmed up?" Jim asked. As he walked by the door, he quickly turned the key so the front door would be locked. He didn't see the sudden flash of terror that crossed the younger man's face. "Answer me, Sandburg. I'm in a good mood right now." 

"Yes," came the quiet reply, muffled by the towel. 

While preparing the coffee, Jim kept an eye on Sandburg. It wasn't because he really thought the kid would try something to escape. After all, he'd come to his place voluntarily. 

"How did you know where I live?" Jim inquired, switching on the coffee-maker. Then he leaned against the kitchen counter. 

The towels stopped moving. Clearing his vision, Blair shrugged. "I found a couple of calling cards in your jacket." 

"My...?" Jim started, looking closer at the dark leather jacket Sandburg was wearing. 

"You had forgotten about it in the bank," Blair explained, taking off the soaked jacket. "I kept it," he admitted quietly. "I'm sorry, man, it's pretty much ruined now." He looked away. "Also took the twenty bucks to get here." 

Jim just nodded. "Milk or sugar?" 

"What?" Blair looked up, surprised at the sudden change of subject. "Oh, both, please, if it's okay." 

"You have to drink it, Chief, not me." Ellison poured them two cups of coffee and walked back into the living-room area. Handing Blair a steaming cup he sat down on the couch. 

Sandburg wrapped his hands around the hot cup but kept standing. The towel still covered his head and he closed his eyes as he took the first sip of the hot liquid. Sighing deeply he enjoyed the hot liquid running down this throat. 

Jim watched the silent man. He still shivered occasionally but the coffee seemed to help. "Feeling better?" the detective asked. 

The towel nodded. "Much better." Sandburg raised the cup a little. "This is good, man. Thanks." 

"Good." 

After another moment of silence accompanied by the rolling of thunder and the steady beat of rain drops on the windows, Blair pulled the towel off his head. "Hey, I know I'm probably not in the position to ask for favours, man, but would you let me take a shower?" The expressive blue eyes pleaded, giving emphasis to the request. 

Jim snorted. "You're right. You're not in the position to ask favors. 'sides, you forgot the magic word." 

"What magic word?" Blair stepped forward to place his empty mug on the living room table. 

"Ever heard of 'please' and...", Jim began. 

"I'm not begging, Ellison!" Although Blair's face fell with the rejection, his voice was unyielding. 

Jim shook his head at the sudden change of moods. "You can be polite without begging, Chief." He stood quickly, watching Blair mirror his movements backwards as if he was suddenly afraid of him. Ignoring the odd behaviour, Jim walked over to the bathroom and opened the door. 

"You'll find soap and shampoo as well as clean towels in the cabinet here," Jim informed him. "I don't have anything fancy so you'll have to do with what I can offer. This is not the Ritz, okay?" 

The wet towel in one hand, Blair slowly made his way over to where Jim was standing. "I'm sorry," he murmured, as he passed the detective. "Thanks," he added looking at the small bathroom and its facilities. "A tub...," he mumbled, his voice close to a sigh. 

"No problem," Jim replied, reaching around to extract the key. 

At the sound Blair whirled around, his eyes wide with fear again. "What are you doing?" he demanded to know. 

Jim re-inserted the key into the front lock of the bathroom door. "I don't want you to think this _is_ the Ritz with you coming and going at will. Knock when you're finished." With that he closed the door and turned the key. 

"Fuck you!" Blair spat, the insult missing its impact as his voice quivered a bit. A fist hit the wooden door. "Let me out of here, asshole!" 

Something in Jim snapped. The stress of the last few hours, hell, days, came rushing back to him with a vengeance. Hastily, he fumbled for the key and turned the lock again. Opening the door he almost hit the startled young man. 

"Hey, man...," Blair started, then yelped in surprised as Jim grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the tiled wall. 

"Listen to me, pal, you're testing my patience with your attitude. Take a shit or take a shower, but do it without giving me a lecture about what I should do. I'm in a generous mood right now so take advantage of that." Jim hissed, his face close to Sandburg's. "It's your choice. I don't have the slightest problem with cuffing you to that beam again all night, no matter how uncomfortable that is." He pinned the young man with a hard glance, daring him to challenge him. "I'm not hearing anything," he probed menacingly. 

If Blair's eyes were wide with fear before, they were impossibly large now. He stared at Jim, his mouth moving without a sound coming out. 

"What's it gonna be?!" Jim shouted, not caring if his moist breath hit the other man's face. 

"S-s-ssorry," Blair stuttered. "I'm sorry, so sorry... I'll be g-good." 

Jim released his captive, and without another word left the bathroom, turning the key twice. Then he leaned against the closed door, breathing deeply, as his heart hammered against the inside of his chest. It was true that the kid seemed to push all his buttons, but he didn't like the look of complete horror in his eyes that he'd seen a few times this night already. Something was definitely wrong. 

Walking back to the living room, Jim tried the phone again. The lines were still dead, bearing testimony to the raging storms outside. It was going to be a long night. Jim returned to his seat on the couch, his gaze travelling over the empty coffee mug and the puddle of water on the wooden floor. Why had Sandburg come to him? Surely, he didn't believe he'd let him go because he had a winning smile and intoxicatingly soft curls. The kid couldn't be that nave. ...and incredible blue eyes Jim's mind added mischievingly. 

What the hell...? Jim tried to interrupt his own thoughts. He didn't like the way they were leading. What he'd felt for Sandburg in the bank was concern, maybe pity that he'd had to endure a jerk like Kincaid. He'd considered him the weakest link in the chain; he considered him adorable. 

"Oh come on, Ellison," Jim scolded himself. "Stop it." 

In the bathroom, the shower came on. Quickly Jim covered his ears as the gushing water sounded like waterfalls in his ears. "Shit, not now!" Jim moaned, realizing the strange senory episodes were happening again. After a moment, the water was overtoned by a low humming. Jim threw a puzzled look at the locked bathroom door. The kid was humming! 

"Oh great," Ellison muttered, getting up to refill his coffee cup. He detoured to the telephone table to try unsuccessfully to set up a communication again. Following another thought, Jim crossed the living room to climb the stairs to his bedroom. 

About twenty minutes later there was a loud knock at the bathroom door. "I'm finished," Sandburg announced. 

Trained by years of experience, Jim neared the door with his gun aimed at the door. "Stay away from the door, Sandburg," he ordered. Thinking better of it, he said, "Go to the sink and start the water." 

"What?" 

"Do it, Chief, or you'll stay the night in there!" Jim threatened, his hand at the key. As the sound of running water reached his ears, he quickly turned the key and threw the door open, gun trained. 

"Hey, man...," Blair protested, raising his arms. He wore the same jeans and shirt he'd before, still wet and clinging to his body. Jim's soaked leather jacket hung over his arm. 

"Here," Jim said. With his left hand he threw a pair of sweatpants and shirt onto the bathtub rim. "They're probably a bit large but it's better than your wet clothes." His gun never left the target of Blair's chest. 

"Thank you," Blair said honestly. Carefully, so not to provoke a threatening action, he put the leather jacket down and reached for the sweat pants. 

"I'll be in the living room," Jim announced, retreating slowly, never turning his back on the young criminal. 

Chapter Twelve 

The wind howled pitifully, while the city of Cascade drowned in the pouring rain. Heavy clouds, pitch-black in the impenetrable darkness of the night, decorated the sky, as the trees and branches bent, still undefeated by the force of the storm. The only sign of human compassion and warmth came from the gentle glow of light behind the balcony windows at Prospect Road. 

In apartment #307 Jim Ellison had started the fire in the fireplace, deciding his young visitor would welcome the warm-up. As the flames started licking the proffered wood, the bathroom door opened. 

"This is a nice place you have," Sandburg commented, as he made his way to the living room. "Have you lived here long?" he asked. 

Blair looked around the living room, reminded of some of the hotels he had stayed in with Kincaid. Tasteful, comfortable, generic. The walls were red bricks with thick yellow pipes criss-crossing them, only one large picture near the stereo unit. No photos, no flowers or plants. 

"About six years," Ellison replied taking in Sandburg's appearance. The kid was still shivering slightly, but other than that, seemed to be okay. Jim's loan of sweatpants and shirt fit him poorly, but at least the clothes were dry and clean. 

Blair tried unsuccessfully to hide his surprise at the answer. "I imagine you're not here very much then," he said at last, looking longingly at the space, imagining what he would do if he ever had place like this. On the other hand, the detective didn't strike him as a creative guy. Maybe a table's task _was_ to serve as place to eat, a sofa to offer a seat. And in Ellison's world a bookshelf was a merely bookshelf. 

"Listen, Chief, you're not here to discuss my life's story," Jim said, his voice soft. The harsh tone he'd used earlier was suddenly gone. For the moment. 

Blair nodded, stepping closer to the fire place and reaching out with his hands to grasp the warmth. "Sorry, man, just trying to make small talk." He rubbed his hands and then sat down on the hard wooden floor before the fire. 

"There's a couch over here, Sandburg," Jim reminded him. 

"This is okay," the reply came accompanied by a sigh. "So nice and warm." After a moment, Blair added hesitantly, "If you don't mind." 

Jim shrugged, wincing a little, as his injured shoulder made itself known. All the work he had done previously hit him again with a vengeance. He touched the hurting area, massaging the his muscles. "Suit yourself," Jim said, barely suppressing a groan. 

Blair noticed the older man's discomfort and the memory, -- his own little secret-- came back to him. "How's your shoulder?" he asked in concern. Images raced through his head. He'd pulled the trigger and watched in horror as the body collapsed to the ground. 

"I'm fine," Jim said, immediately regretting the display of his vulnerability. "Don't think you can try anything, Sandburg." The hostility was back. 

"I won't," Blair promised. "I'm glad you weren't hurt too badly." 

Jim snorted in mock amusement. "Yeah, I never imagined Kincaid would be such a bad shot." Missing the flash of emotions on the younger man's features, Ellison turned to him, his own expression stern. "Okay, why did you come to me?" 

Blair looked into the flames, gathering courage for his next words. "I want a d-," he cleared his throat. " _-deal_. I want to make a deal with you." 

"A deal?" Jim repeated slowly. "Let's assume I'm game, what do you want?" 

Sandburg pushed himself up, walking over to where Jim sat on the couch. "I know where Kincaid is," he announced, not surprising his opponent. 

"I thought so, pal," Jim nodded. "Question is, what do _you_ want in return for this information?" His question met a disbelieving glance that was quickly covered by a mask of self-confidence. 

"I present him to you on a silver platter. Kincaid and his men. I know about his plans and the Sunrise Patriots." Blair stared at him, his eyes full of keen determination. "I want--," his voice faltered as he met Ellison's piercing glance. 

"Come on, tell me want you want," Jim repeated, enjoying an evil feeling of satisfaction. The kid wasn't cut out to negotiate any privileges. 

"I'll tell you everything I know," Sandburg started again. "And you get the D.A. to grant me immunity." 

Jim nodded, pursing his lips a little. "So, you think blowing the whistle on him will be enough to ensure your freedom?" He shook his head. "I don't think so." 

"What do you mean?" Panic swung in Blair's voice. His perfectly thought out plan didn't seem so perfect anymore. He looked down at Jim, who still sat on the sofa, arms stretched out as if they were discussing a recent ball game. "You won't get him without me," he taunted him. 

Crossing his legs and leaning back against the soft pillows, Jim detected the now familiar fear radiating from Blair's rigid from. "You have participated in his activities, you were part of his team, part of the Sunrise Patriots. Terrorism is a severe crime, Chief. You can't expect us to just let you go because you..." 

"But I never did anything!" Blair shouted, stepping closer and trying to intimidate the seated figure. 

Jim didn't move. "You are still an accessory to the crime, Chief. Let's say you have that precious information," he began, noticing that Blair slightly relaxed at his words. "Why?" 

"Why what?" 

"Why do you want to betray your comrades?" Jim probed. "You surely didn't just wake up this morning and come straight here." 

Blair's shoulders slumped. Closing his eyes briefly, he stepped back, gaining some distance between himself and the man who seemed able to read his mind. Sandburg walked over to the balcony windows and watched the raging storm. "If I think about it, that is exactly what happened," he started, wrapping his arms around himself. "Do you know the phrase of the final drop that makes the vessel sink?" 

When Jim didn't reply, the young man continued, "The vessel went down a long time ago, I just didn't see it. I didn't want to see it. He's killed so many people and hurt others, all in the name of his fucking cause!" The last few words were shouted, seemingly addressed to the rain drops as they prattled against the windows. 

"I loathe violence." He turned around quickly and laughed joylessly. "Hard to believe, huh?" 

"Considering the circumstance, I'd say so," Jim replied calmly. 

Blair left his post by the balcony and returned to the living room. "He's killed people," he repeated, then shook his head. "I knew he was a murderer but I had to stay with him or--" Blair stopped his speech. 

"Or?" Jim prodded. 

"Never mind--look, I knew, and I hated it, but I couldn't do anything about it and the longer I stayed with them, the more Kincaid's kindness to me made me think he was different. He was good, just caught up, like I was in doing something wrong." 

"Was he?" 

Ignoring the question, Blair sat down on the easy chair. "I'm guilty, aren't I?" It was more a statement of fact than a question. Raking a hand through his long mane of curls, he sighed heavily. "God, what have I become? This afternoon, he killed innocent people to get money. There was this family.. Kincaid and McBride just.. went in and shot them! No threats, no 'gimme your money or you're dead'. He just killed them. All of them." His voice shook as his mind replayed the horrible memory. "We stopped at a gas station. That's when I escaped." 

"They didn't notice?" Jim asked still sceptical. 

Blair shook his head. "No, not at the time anyway. Everyone was busy." A small smile crossed his face. "I bet he's going berserk by now." 

* * *

The fist hit McBride right in the face. The terrorist stumbled backwards but stayed on his feet. "Sorry, sir, I didn't mean it that way," he apologize quickly, wiping the blood off his face. 

"Does anyone else have a smart comment he wants to add?" Kincaid shouted at his men who stood nearby watching the heated discussion. 

"No, sir," came the reply in unison. 

Kincaid nodded. "Good, I thought so." He checked gun, then addressed his men again. "Listen up, soldiers! We have a deserter to catch, and what's worse a traitor who will sell his cheap little ass to the first bidder. I want him found!" His voice rose. "Take whatever means necessary, but bring him back alive! Dismissed!" 

The terrorist watched as his followers started running into the dark woods, searching for the man who owed him everything. Only illuminated by the gentle glow of his flash light, Kincaid re-read the handwritten message that had been stored on the dashboard of their stolen vehicle: 
    
    
            Garrett, you know I'm grateful. You're my Blessed 
            Protector. I'll never forget that. I'm sorry I have to violate 
    our deal like this but I can't do this anymore. Please forgive
            me. 
                            Blair
    

Within seconds, the piece of paper had been crumbled into a tight ball, the fist surrounding it shaking with rage. "This is the last mistake you're ever going to make," Kincaid whispered through gritted teeth. He didn't really care about the young man's disappearance - an ass like that was easy to find anywhere, anytime -- the thought of the mere disobedience, the fact that he'd dared to run away from him--, made Kincaid's blood boil. He wasn't to be disobeyed! He was the commander, the leader and that little prick... 

"Sir?" McBride's voice shook him out of his musings. 

"What is it, McBride? I thought my orders where clear," Kincaid snapped angrily. 

"Do you think he'd go to the police, sir?" 

Kincaid laughed. "If he does, he's not as smart as I thought he was." He shook his head slowly as a thought came to mind. "On the other hand, that might be exactly what he might be doing." 

"Sir?" McBride eyed his commander with a puzzled look. 

His eyes gleaming with delight, Kincaid explained: "Think about it, soldier! He's on the run. By now word must have reached the police, maybe even the Feds. Every cop that is looking for us, is looking for him. He'll be arrested immediately and he won't survive that. Unless...," he cocked his head, finishing the thought before he spoke it out loud. "...unless he finds a fellow conspirator." An evil smile crept across his face. "McBride, what's the name of this useless negotiator?" 

In unison, they both spoke the name, "James Ellison." 

* * *

With the phone lines still being victims of the storm, Jim decided to make the best of the situation. Sandburg wasn't going anywhere, at least not unless backup arrived, and took him to the station. A plate of sandwiches in his hand and another pot of coffee in the other, Jim returned to the living room where Blair still sat on the opposite couch. 

"Here you go, Chief," Jim offered, putting the plate on the table. "Help yourself." 

The smell of tuna and cheese seemed to awaken the younger man's spirits a bit. For a moment Blair closed his eyes. "Oh man, this smells great," he said choosing one of the sandwiches. "Thanks." 

Jim shrugged. "We're stuck here until the storm quiets or until Simon sends an escort to get me back to the station." 

"What happens then?" Blair asked, chewing on the food and sipping his coffee. "Who's Simon?" he added. "Your boss?" 

"Yeah, Simon Banks," Jim supplied the name. "I should've called him hours ago. He's probably mad as hell by now." The detective helped himself to sandwich. "As for what happens next, if you're serious about helping us to get Kincaid, you'll be taken down to .." 

"NO!" Blair shouted, interrupting Jim's explanations. "I'm not going back!" 

"This is the way it goes, Sandburg," Jim said calmly. "It's not up to me or Simon to decide. It's the D.A.'s decision. However, if you have valuable information, your time in jail will be short. Maybe a couple of months until -" 

"I said I'm not going back!" Blair repeated firmly. 

"What do you want, Sandburg? To stay here?" Jim motioned with his free hand, while holding his cup of coffee. "I don't think so." Seeing the panic on Blair's face, he tried to offer some comfort. "Hey, if they realise you're a potential witness you'll be put under protection. Until then though, it can take a few weeks." 

"I'm not going back," Blair whispered, the cup clinking to the plate as it suddenly fell out of lifeless hands. He trembled, as a surge of fear, born of memory and the prospect of what was lying ahead, rushed through his body. Sweat broke out on his forehead. 

"Hey, hey, Chief, don't go shocky on me here," Jim shouted, alarmed at the sudden change. Putting down his late dinner, he quickly made his way around the table to sit by the distraught figure. He didn't know where his concern came from but he couldn't stand the look of utterly horror on the young man's face. "It's gonna be okay, kid, just breathe and try to relax." 

Fear-stricken eyes riveted on him. "You don't..understand..," Blair murmured, swallowing hard. 

"What is it, Chief?" Jim asked gently, placing a comforting hand on the other man's arm. The gesture was meant to soothe fluttering nerves but Blair jerked away at the contact. 

"I'm gonna--," he began, his Adam's apple moving rapidly. At the same instant, he jumped off the couch. 

Instinctively, Jim reached for his weapon at the unexpected movement. However, the young man only bolted for the bathroom, tearing the door open and vanishing inside. Only seconds later, Jim heard the unmistakable sounds of vomiting. He sighed heavily, wondering what demons were haunting the young man to provoke such a reaction. Life in prison wasn't easy, especially not for an attractive man like Sandburg. However, the file he'd read at the hospital hadn't indicated any severe traumatic incidents or injuries. Jim stood up and walked over to the fire place to put more wood into the crackling fire. 

"I'm sorry about that," Blair's voice was raw as he returned to the living room minutes later. His face was paler than before and again small shivers ravaged his body. He sat down on his spot on the couch again, his hands stuck between his thighs. His whole body tensed up as Jim moved closer. 

"Here, take the blanket," the detective said calmly offering a colorful afghan. When Blair didn't move to accept the blanket, he tenderly placed it around the young man's shoulders. 

"I don't know what just happened," Blair mumbled, finally acknowledging the soft cover by pulling the afghan around himself. 

"I think you do," Jim corrected softly, taking his seat again on the other couch. Those eyes that could tell a story without any words looked back at him, pain and despair pooling in unshed tears. 

"I don't want to go back," Blair repeated. 

"Why don't you tell me the story from the beginning, Chief?" The detective suggested in a low voice. 

Shaking his head in denial, Blair snuggled deeper into the couch. Outside the storm picked up again while Sandburg fought against the storm in his heart to share his memories with a stranger. Slowly, he began to speak, returning to the hell of his nightmares. 

"I'm an anthropologist, you know..?" 

Chapter Thirteen 

I am an anthropologist. Only a few people are lucky enough to make their passion their profession. Anthropology is my life, studying human behaviour, tribes in far-away countries - different cultures and different rules. Ironically, this is exactly what put me in jail. 

I was told Starksville was the institution's name. I'd never heard of it, but what did I know of crime and prisons? It seemed that I didn't even know the laws of my own country, otherwise I wouldn't have ended up there. 

Drug dealing. Me? That was an impossibility - everyone knew that - but the DA didn't want to hear any of it. The alleged drugs were a herbal remedy imported from a tribe in Kenya. Perfectly legal over there, perfectly illegal over here. Ignorance was no defence and so I was sent to Starksville. Six months, or a fine I would have never been able to pay in my life. 

Six months was not too long, I thought. I mean I'd been with remote tribes in the jungle for a year and survived. The experience might give me a great opportunity to study a closed society. Talk about closed societies, they didn't get any more closed than prison. I thought perhaps that I would salvage a paper out of my time there. 

When Starksville came into view I got the first glimpse of my new home. Cold gray brick walls greeted me. The fence was high with barbed wire on the top. Guards on their posts carried weapons, daring anyone to escape. I shuddered as I imagined spending the next six months caged in there like a dangerous animal. Suddenly, the wrist and ankle cuffs seemed too tight and I struggled against a rising panic attack. I wasn't a criminal! I wanted to shout but my brain told me to shut up. There was no way for me to change my fate 

The vehicle entered the heavy-guarded gate and soon we were inside. The gate closed and what had just seemed like a nasty nightmare the last few months became a frightening reality. I was in prison, I was an inmate now, arrested and convicted. 

What did they call this place? At the University it would have been the Admissions Office, but here? I pondered the proper name while following inmates ahead of me. We were registered and tagged. Like dogs. That thought invaded my mind, leaving a bad taste in the back of my throat. I stood in line waiting for my name to be called. In the meantime, I looked at my fellow inmates. They all looked like the clich of a bad guy, for lack of a better word. Big, ugly and tattoos everywhere or slim, ugly and tattoos everywhere. Black, white, an Asian and a young guy who looks Mediterranean, maybe of Italian decent. He looked rather good in comparison to the others, I met his gaze for a second, he smiled and I smiled back reassuringly. The ugly guys I only viewed out of the corner of my eyes. To look them in the eye would have been like tempting the lions and I didn't want to end up on their evening menu. 

I flinched a little as my name was called. The way the guard called my name, "Sandburg, Blair," makes me sound like someone from the most-wanted list. I wanted to smile in reply but thought better of it. I wasn't in a social club. I was in prison. 

Prison. 

At the desk, pictures were taken, I wondered what for, I had to empty my pockets, my wrist watch went along with the bracelet I'd received from a tribe in Sumatra. I suppressed a sigh as I handed it over. After all, it was for safe keeping, right? They locked it somewhere and after six months everything would be given back. I would be forgiven and forgotten. I had to sign for my stuff, the clerk adding his signature. A guard escorted me to an adjoining room, carrying my belongings in a plastic bag. 

Entering the room, my blood ran cold. It was an examination room. Stark white tiles decorated the walls and floor and reflecting the bright light coming from the ceiling lamps. Cabinets lined the walls, covered trays stood by a big examination table. As I took in all the details, I suddenly realised that they were not going to just give me a clean bill of health. It wasn't about the flu I had a few months ago, it was a strip search. The thought set in and my stomach rolled uncomfortably. 

A man in a white lab coat read my chart. Looking up, he seemed to compare the notes with what he saw and I tried another reassuring smile. How many times did I smile reassuringly that first day? It didn't work and his introductory words didn't calm my nerves either. 

"Mr. Sandburg, my name is Dr. Myers. All prisoners are subject to a full body cavity search." He indicated the examination table. "Please remove your clothes and step over here." 

No handshake, no smile, no friendly word. 

"I'm not carrying any drugs," I tried, a small part of me hoping my honest face will make him have mercy on me. 

Dr. Myers was not impressed. "Mr. Sandburg, these searches are conducted for security reasons. Each time an inmate leaves this facility, whether for a court hearing or something else, cavity searches are required." 

The man smiled but it wasn't the reassuring smile I had flashed him a few moments ago. It sent another shiver down my spine and his next statement confirmed the feeling that slowly crept through my blood stream. 

"Also I may inform you, Mr. Sandburg, that any time you get a visitor or have any kind of contact with the outside world, we have reason to believe the security of this place is being threatened. So you might be careful of what you get in your mail or what your visitors bring." 

My feet were getting cold on the icy tiles as I stood in my underwear in front of the examination table. "I'll be careful," I promised, watching Dr. Myers add more notes on my chart. 

The door opened and a tall, black man, also dressed in a white lab coat, stepped inside. "Sorry for the delay, Dr. Myers, number 4308 managed to cut himself up on a piece of metal. Made quite a mess." He came closer but didn't make any move to introduce himself. 

"Thank you, Martin," the physician said. "I was about to start with Mr. Sandburg." He glanced at me and frowned "Mr. Sandburg, I asked you to remove all your clothes." 

"All at once?" I replied, startled by the thought. It wasn't that I had a problem with modesty but there was something about the good doctor and his assistant that made my skin crawl. Seeing their grim faces I took off my shirt and reluctantly pulled down my boxers. 

"Step over here, please." Myers ordered, indicating a spot in front of the table. 

Goosebumps danced across my body as I complied. I was freezing, partly from the cold tiles under my feet, partly from the fear of what would be coming next. 

"Put your hands on your head and spread your legs, number 5014," the orderly instructed. 

"What?" I asked, dumbfounded. I didn't know what freaked me out more, the unpleasant position or the degrading new name. 

Dr. Myers smiled this strange, knowing smile. "Please do as Martin says, Mr. Sandburg. This makes the procedure easier for all parties." Out of the breast pocket of his lab coat, he took a spatula and a dental mirror. 

I assumed the requested position, feeling entirely vulnerable now. Taking a deep breathe, I tried not to think about the picture I presented. Naked, arms raised, legs spread. I felt the cool air moving across my body and shivered again. 

"Open your mouth, please." Myers poked inside my mouth. I could hear the dental mirror brushing against my teeth a couple of times. Then the spatula pressed down my tongue. Involuntarily I started gagging and the doctor ceased his motions for a moment. "You're quite sensitive, aren't you, Mr. Sandburg?" he commented, resuming his poking. I gagged again as the stick hit the end of my tongue. 

"Martin, I think we are onto something here," he announced. 

Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw Martin nodding and walking over to one of the cabinets. Before I could see what he was doing, Dr. Myers took his gloved finger and searched the inside of my mouth. The spatula wasn't the nicest thing I'd ever had in my mouth, but his finger made me gag in earnest now. I could taste the rubber texture of the glove and feel his fleshy finger groping around and pressing my tongue. 

"Mr. Sandburg, please lay down on the table. We need to make sure you're hiding nothing in your stomach." 

"You've got to be kidding!" I exclaimed, looking at him with big eyes. "There's nothing to find," I protested but Martin's rough hand pushed me down on the examination table. I flinched as my bare ass hit the cold metal surface. There was no pillow or sheet and my teeth clattered when I was forced to stretch out. 

"The gagging indicates that you've recently swallowed something and we need to make sure there's no package of drugs," Dr. Myers explained. 

I shook my head. "It's a reflex, man! You put that spatula down my throat." My protests were in vain. I leaned back and felt even more exposed than before. 

"Number 5010, we will have to restrain you, if you do not cooperate," Martin said, walking up to the table. 

"Open your mouth wide, Mr. Sandburg," Dr. Myers instructed. I saw a small bottle in his hand. "I will numb your mouth and throat a little so that the insertion of the tube won't be too painful for you." 

Not _too_ painful? Why didn't that reassure me? Not too-- still left-- painful. I could hear my heart beating faster. Giving in to my fate, I opened my mouth. The cool spray actually felt rather nice but then the numb feeling scared me. I couldn't swallow! I turned pleading eyes on the doctor trying to force my throat muscles to cooperate. 

Dr. Myers saw my misery but didn't comment. Instead, he brought out a long plastic tube. "Relax, Mr. Sandburg." As it entered my mouth and slowly travelled down my throat, my eyes began to tear. 

"Martin, make sure he doesn't make any sudden moves," The order came and two big hands restrained my shoulders, effectively pinning my body to the table. 

I felt the tube inserted deeper and deeper down my throat. It wasn't really painful but unpleasant. I tried to swallow again but the tube made that move impossible. Breathing through my nose, I closed my eyes as I felt my stomach cramp. The tube must have reached its goal. Then... it was the most horrible feeling I'd ever experienced in my life. The tube came alive and started pumping my stomach. I wanted to heave but, again, there was nothing I could do to fight the object down my throat. 

"He's empty," Dr. Myers said after a while. I moaned as the tube was slowly removed. Gagging, a wave of dry heaves ravaged my body as the rubber finally left my mouth. I spat into a basin, gasping for air. 

"Mr. Sandburg, you're lucky that no contraband was found," Myers told me, scribbling onto his chart. 

I had no breath to reply, I just shook my head in confusion. 

The exam continued with a short inspection of my ears. What did he expect to find there? A grenade? I grinned tiredly at that mental image. My mood was quickly shattered when I heard Martin's next instruction. 

"Put your feet up here, number 5010," the orderly requested, indicating the set of stirrups at the end of the table. 

A protest was on my lips but I knew I didn't stand a chance. I was in prison. I was reduced to a number while fleshy fingers poked at my insides. I pulled up my legs and placed them in the metal stirrups. Martin adjusted the leg holders and moved them far apart. Fully exposed, I was accessible for everyone and everything. 

The touch of Myers's gloved fingers made me nauseous again. I tried a couple of relaxation techniques but nothing seemed able to tune out the humiliating sensation of complete vulnerability - and disgust. I couldn't stifle a groan as the doctor took my cock into his hands. What the hell was he doing? I wondered, my hands clenched into fist. 

"Do you need a urine sample for a lab analysis?" Martin asked, almost eagerly. 

Myers nodded his head. He's fingering my slit, stretching the sensitive skin until I moan in pain. "Yes," Myers replied, "hand me a 16, please." 

Raising my head a little, I wondered if I'd be able to produce a urine sample. Peeing into a cup in front of two not overly friendly guys was not on an easy task. "Uhm, Doctor, I'm not sure if I can do it right now. You see I just..." I trailed off. 

Watching Dr. Myers taking a needleless syringe, my eyes grew big. He brought the instrument to my opening and pressed the plunger. A strange sensation, almost pleasant, surged through my cock. It was like coming in reverse and I bit my lip not to moan. 

"Don't worry, Mr. Sandburg, we have our means to obtain such samples," Dr. Myers explained. 

The orderly handed him a tube and I knew what was going to happen. I'd never been catheterised and I'd never wanted to find out what it felt like. The tube seemed to be too large to fit into such a small orif--oh, my god, it hurt!! I threw my head back, banging it on the metal table. Hissing, my thighs trembled as I involuntarily tensed my muscles against the intrusion. The catheter snaked down my urethra. It felt like sandpaper despite the lubricant. Moments later, it entered my bladder, forcing its way past the muscle. 

"Ahh, it hurts," I groaned at the burning sensation in my cock. 

"I agree that it's highly unpleasant, especially for a male patient," Dr. Myers said and for a moment there seemed to be real compassion on his face. 

The catheter extracted urine from my bladder and as I looked up, I saw the golden liquid pouring into a plastic bag. 

"Mr. Sandburg, next I'm conducting the rectal exam." Myers announced and moved his chair between my spread legs. He met my questioning glance and said "The catheter will stay inside your bladder to avoid any unexpected surprises." 

Sighing, I rested my head again. "You've drained so much, I don't think there's any left to leak," I tried an attempt at humour although I would rather have cried than laughed. 

Martin's voice came from somewhere behind me. "Dr. Myers doesn't worry about urine." 

At my startled look, the doctor plastered that strange smile on his face again. "We've experienced that our inmates tend to get quite aroused by the rectal exam." He adjusted the catheter a little and taped it to the inside of my thigh. "With the catheter in place, a possible ejaculation won't occur." 

Trying to digest the concept, I flinched as Myers spread my buttocks to inspect my anus. For a while he just seemed to look at it - I couldn't see what he was doing because my legs restricted my view. 

"No external visible indications of contraband," he stated. I sighed in relief at his words. This would be over soon then. My relief was short-lived. Spreading my cheeks impossibly wider, I felt the first fleshy finger pushing against my anus. 

"No indication of recent lubrication," Myers said. His finger left my ass for a second, only to return moments later with his hand coated with gel. He lubed my entrance thoroughly and slowly, almost gently. Gone were the rough hands that had forced a tube down my throat and a catheter into my bladder. He took his time, circling my entrance, never penetrating but softly preparing me for the exam. 

"Are you doing okay, Mr. Sandburg?" he asked suddenly sounding a little bit out of breath. 

"I'm fine," I replied with a frown. 

"Is it possible that you're enjoying this then?" Myers continued with longer pauses between each word. 

I looked up, trying to see him. The man's face was flushed as if he'd run a couple of miles. Pearls of sweat glistened on his forehand. With a start I realised Myers was aroused. Aroused by playing with my ass! 

"No!" I replied firmly. 

"A lot of men do," he said. 

My empty stomach rolled dangerously at his words. It was then that his thick finger finally pushed inside me. I closed my eyes but the sensations got stronger without the visual contact so I quickly opened them and stared into the bright lamps on the ceiling. He probed inside my ass, gentle, loving motions it seemed. 

"Prepare the enema," he instructed, retracting his fingers. 

My heart skipped a beat. I'd never had an enema before - hell, I'd never had such an examination before! Before I could come up with a valid complaint, which would accomplish nothing, something big and thick was shoved up my ass. I winced. It stretched my hole, struggling through the sphincter, and finally settled deep inside. I hardly had time to take a breathe when the water rushes into me, filling me rapidly. 

At first it wasn't too painful. As a matter of fact, the water felt nice, like an internal massage. My cock twitched in delight and I moaned. All pleasure died immediately at the pain the implanted catheter caused. The water roared inside me, travelling up my colon. The pressure soon became uncomfortable but at the same time it felt good. Fighting the battle between arousal and pain, my cock tried to harden again and again. 

I gasped as the first cramp raged through my gut. "I can't take it any more," I moaned arching my back against the pain. The water gurgled deep inside me, following its way and stretching my insides to the bursting point. "Please STOP it!" I started to beg. The cruel dance of my cock never stopped. My breath came in erratic intervals, as I fought the cramps and enjoyed the threatening arousal. 

Myers watched me with gleaming eyes. Suddenly his hands were on my stomach massaging it gently. "It'll be over soon, Mr. Sandburg. Just try and relax." 

Then the massage ceased and the water stopped I panted in relief. 

"Please expel into this bed pan," the instruction came. I moaned again as the tube was removed from my rectum. Passing the sphincter, my cock tried to grow again. In vain with pain, I thought mockingly and breathed against the agony. Everything hurt. I blinked away tears as the water gushed out of me. 

I wanted to go home but I couldn't. 

Six months minus three hours, I counted mentally. Eternity could not be longer. 

Chapter Fourteen 

I felt like shit by the time I was taken to my cell. My body hurt in places I didn't really want to think about. My throat's raw and with each step I felt water leaking down my leg. Like an old man who couldn't control his body anymore. 

My new home was anything but cosy and I shivered as I took in the stark surroundings. The feeling didn't change when my eyes met the cold stare of my roommate. He was a tall guy, with dark hair and eyes. He sat on his bed, leafing through a magazine. 

"Hi," I greeted him with a smile. "My name's Blair Sandburg." When I received no answer I moved to the unoccupied bed, dumping my stuff and sitting down with a sigh. 

* * *

My daily routine was nothing but mind-numbing. The physical labour wasn't bad, wood or metal shop but I found myself trying to work on riddles or Algebra problems just to occupy my mind with something more complicated. Calculating the famous rice problem or solving the riddle of the five men from five countries living in five colored houses. Who has the fish? Who drinks what? Eagerly my mind seemed to jump on any kind of information I could get my hands on. I'd taken out loads of books from the prison library. I thought maybe I could start learning another language. 

My roommate's name was Frank. After two days of almost silence - aside from the fact that he kept the rats awake at night 'cause he's snoring - he finally decided to introduce himself. I was doing my morning routine, wincing as my cock still burned from the catheter, and suddenly his large hand dropped down on my shoulder. I tensed, wondering if he had just decided to beat me into a pulp. 

"The name's Frank," he said simply as if we've just met. "Call me Frank," he added and I nodded. 

"Morning, Frank," I replied with a smile. 

He looked at me strangely, then opened his mouth as if to comment on something. I looked at him expectantly, encouraging him to start a conversation. Let's talk about the weather, the terrible stuff they call food in here, anything; just make conversation. I tried to reassure him with my eyes. Desperately I wanted to have someone to talk. 

Instead his gaze riveted on my face a little bit longer. "Lose that smile, kid," was all he said. 

Great, advice of my life, I thought, watching him turn around and change into his work clothes. "What do you mean?" I asked nevertheless, anything to draw out the conversation a little longer. 

Tying his shoes, Frank didn't look up. "It's dangerous," he answered cryptically. It was then that the bell rang, announcing the beginning of our new day. 

Six months minus 2 days and counting. 

* * *

The creative-writing class was a joke. From the moment the teacher opened his mouth, I was bored. And I longed to stand up and take over. Of course, I didn't do that but with every passing minute the urge grew stronger. My classmates felt the same, as the participation in the subject matter was zero. I couldn't hide a smile as I watched the instructor's feeble efforts to get the class to talk. Served him right. At least the assignment he gave us for the next class would kill the time a little bit. 

Frank leaned forward to whisper in my ear. "Do you know what to do, kid?" 

I turned my head. "Sure, want any help with that?" I whispered back. He nodded in relief. "No problem, man," I added. "I'm a teacher myself." 

The bells interrupted the teacher's monologue and, yeah, we are free to go. As I left the classroom I wondered if punishment in prison would be two hours of   
this guy's class. That would be real torture. Grinning, I was lost in my thoughts. 

A voice called after me. "Hey, kid." 

I turned around to face three men. They'd joined the creative-writing class; I recognized their bored faces. I remembered the teacher calling their names at the beginning of the class. McBride, Fletcher and Morse. 

"What can I do for you guys?" I inquired, adding another smile to the question. The three men stood in front of me, forcing me to move backwards until I felt the brick wall at my back. 

"Frank said you're good at this shit," McBride began. 

My eyebrows rose. "Creative-writing? Oh yes, man, I'm a teacher at Rainier University in Cascade. Actually, I'm an anthropologist," I revealed. Maybe they needed help with the class. Hell, if I had to write all their papers it would be better than staring at a blank wall all evening. 

"So you're educated?" Fletcher chimed in. 

I shrugged. "I'm not Einstein, but I know what's ..." Before I could finish the sentence, Morse's leg jerked up and kneed me in the groin. Pain exploded instantly and I groaned. My hand moved to my abused parts as I slowly sank to the floor. 

"Stop _rubbing_ it into our faces, genius!" McBride hissed into my ear. 

I nodded mutely, too occupied with the fire raging through my cock and balls. Out of the corner of my eyes I noticed another movement and before I could make my body move, Morse's hands were on my face. His fingers dug painfully into my cheeks, forcing my mouth open. 

"You think you're better than all of us 'cause you think you're smarter, huh?" Morse leered into my face. I tried to shake my head, saying no, but the man's grip was vice-like. 

"You think that, do you?" Morse repeated, knowing fully well that I couldn't move my head. 

"Nn--noo," I moaned. 

"Your smile tells another story, genius," Fletcher's voice accused. "I'd say you're laughing at us behind our back, right guys?" 

"Yeahhhh," Morse drawled. 

"I think so, too," McBride concurred. 

I didn't see his foot coming but gasped as it made contact with my stomach. I jerked in surprise and pain, trying to roll into a ball but Morse's strong hands still held my face. Moaning, spit ran out of my mouth coating my captor's fingers. 

Morse chuckled. "Look at him! Drooling like a baby." He increased the pressure of his fingers forcing my mouth even wider. "Do you like this?" he mocked, working his mouth. 

Still recovering from the blow my mid-section, I didn't realize what he was doing until his mouth covered mine! In an aberration of a kiss, he spat a chunk of his own saliva into my mouth. It splattered the back of my throat, then I felt the slow tickle as it ran down my oesophagus. Gagging, I tried to dislodge Morse's grip but in vain. 

"If you puke, genius, I'll make you eat it," Morse threatened. 

I swallowed. 

"McBride!" An hard voice shouted the man's name and I flinched, expecting another acquaintance, expecting more pain and threats. McBride's reaction surprised me. 

"Sir?" He turned around quickly. 

"We have work to do," the unfamiliar voice said. 

"Yes, sir," McBride confirmed. 

Next thing I knew I was free, stumbling to the restrooms where I leaned over the toilet retching out my soul. The pain in my groin and stomach subsided slowly but as much as I rinse my mouth, I could still feel Morse's mouth and his goo running down my throat. 

Six weeks minus 6 days I counted mutely as my stomach rebelled again. 

* * *

Frank watched me with a knowing glance as I walked around our cell. Hunched over with a hand covering my stomach I groaned. I could've use a heating pad or something but given my current situation I didn't think my wish would be heard. Lying down on my bed, I pulled up my legs to lessen the strain on my stomach muscles. 

"Rough day?" Frank's voice came from the other side of the room. He was sitting on his own bed and for a moment the strange question came to my mind, why there were two separate beds instead of bunks. 

"I'm okay," I lied, rubbing my sore stomach. 

Frank's mumbled reply didn't sound like he was buying but he didn't offer any help either. After a few minutes of silence, he stretched out on his bed. "I told you to lose that smile of yours," he reminded me. 

"I wasn't smiling," I replied bitterly. "Not when he put his knee into my groin, nor when his foot checked for my stomach muscles." I added in my mind: Or when his mouth clamped over... In a second I jumped out of bed, barely making it to our toilet. Nothing left in my stomach, the dry heaves left me breathless. My abused muscles protested and I bite my lips to keep myself from moaning out loud. 

Frank watched me dispassionately. As I crawled back to my bed, too tired to try standing up, he asked, "You a fag, kid?" 

With one hand on the bed and the other on the floor to push myself up, I stop mid-motion. "What?" Looking over to my roommate, I saw him watching me with curious eyes. 

"Queer?" he added. "Come on, kid, are you gay?" 

Curling onto my side, I shook my head. "No," I said and closed my eyes. "I like women," I muttered as I slowly drifted to sleep. 

* * *

It was only the beginning. Since the little episode outside the creative-writing classroom, McBride and his goons seemed to find a special interest in me. I never thought of myself as the so-called perfect victim but with those guys my heart began to beat faster every time I saw them. 

It usually started with... 

"Hey, genius!" 

I froze at the voice I knew was McBride's. The new nickname sent chills down my spine and I tried to walk faster. Books under my arm I was on my way to the library to get the newest issue of a National Geographic magazine I had seen the other day. It featured a story about a tribe in Peru that - 

Fletcher stepped in front of me, stopping my escape effectively. "Where're you going so fast, genius?" he asked. 

I felt Morse standing behind me, whereas McBride remained at my side. "Look, guys, I really don't want any trouble, okay? I'm sorry that..." 

"You look sorry," McBride confirmed moving closer. "Where's that bright smile of yours, genius?" 

Morse elbowed me in the back making my books go flying. "You almost make us believe you don't like to see us," he says, his voice taking on a sad tune. 

"Listen--," I started again, only to be cut off by a violent blow to my kidneys. Dropping to the ground, Morse pinned me to the floor with his knee pressed into the small of my back. 

Fletcher grabbed one of the books. Tearing out several pages, he handed them to McBride. "I bet he's eager to learn more about these..." he stopped to look at the title of the book. "... 1000 ways of tribal medicine." 

McBride laughed. "Medicine, huh? That fits." Forcefully he pried open my mouth and shoved a page inside. 

"Chew!" He ordered, while his hand covered my mouth. 

I nodded frantically, working up enough spit in my mouth to water the rough paper. Morse's knee left my back for a moment and part of me hoped they'd played enough and let me go. 

McBride looked around to make sure we were still undisturbed and I watched him nodding to Morse. 

My fear rose as I felt Morse's hands working at the fly of my pants. Oh my God! I've never thought, I mean, the thought of getting... raped had never occurred to me. Sure, it was common knowledge that stuff like that happened from time to time but...to me? Time to take off my rose-tinted glasses. I tried to struggle but clearly outnumbered, I didn't stand a chance. 

"Swallow!" McBride ordered suddenly, taking my racing mind off the fearful thoughts. His hands worked on my throat to emphasis his point. Although the paper was moist and soft now, I gagged and breathed hard through my nose as I tried to make it slide down my throat. 

"Open up!" McBride said again. Complying - god, please, I'd eat anything if they didn't rape me, please, please - I opened my mouth again. Another couple of pages and I was made to eat them again. Moistening them as much as possible, I heard Fletcher tearing out more. 

"How does knowledge taste genius?" Morse asked, laughing a little. Much to my horror he started pulling down my pants and boxers. I kicked my legs and earned another blow to my back. 

I tried to scream in protest but my sounds were muffled by the paper in my mouth and McBride's hand. 

"Here, genius, I got some more medicine for you," Morse announced. 

Tensing my muscles in fear, I felt his callused hands on my ass. He pried apart my cheeks and whistled. The sound made my skin crawl and again I fought to get free. I gasped and almost choked on the paper in my mouth when my resistance resulted in another painful blow to my back. 

Black letters danced in front of my eyes until I realized it was just a big ball of crumpled paper. Fletcher waved it around. "Would you like a sub, genius?" he teased throwing the paper ball to Morse. 

"The way he's winking at me back here, I'd say, he's begging for it," Morse informed his companions. 

I shuddered at his words and began to tremble in earnest as Morse touched the paper ball to my anus. He rubbed it across the sensitive area. "How does that feel, genius? Are you still proud of that knowledge of yours?" My stomach grumbled lurched when I heard a spitting sound, realizing the man was wetting the paper ball. 

"Swallow!" McBride was back in the picture with his hand on my throat. The pages in my mouth were soaked by now. Much easier than the first time, I swallowed. 

Only seconds later, the bile rose in my throat. Morse pressed the now moist paper ball into my asshole. It was more the knowledge what had served as lubrication for this act, than the burning pain, that made me gag again. My muscled quivered in denial, trying to fight the insertion. Involuntarily, I bear down on Morse's fingers. 

"He's fucking-fantastic!" Morse exclaimed as he inserted the ball completely. The intruder bites into the tender flesh of my rectum, stretching me uncomfortably. The fingers left my ass but the burning sensation from the paper ball continued. He'd left it in there! I tried to push, to bear down, however, the paper's rough edges made it a painful encounter. 

"Get dressed," McBride instructed sharply. 

Nodding numbly, I struggle to my knees, suppressing a moan at the unpleasant feeling in my butt. Pulling up my pants, I stood in front of them, trembling. 

"Have a nice day, genius," Fletcher said and the men laughed. 

Morse pushed me forward. "Go!" 

I staggered but managed to regain my balance. Expecting them to follow me I walked faster but to my surprise they didn't. Their laughter followed me as I rounded the corner, turning to the corridor that led to the library. After all, I had to return my books. 

Chapter Fifteen 

"Hey, genius!" 

The blood ran cold in my veins. 

Freezing like a frightened kid, I stopped dead in my tracks, waiting for the harassment to begin, for the pain to start. I hated this. It wasn't the pain that got to me, but the feeling of total helplessness that made my stomach revolt. McBride and his buddies knew I was at their mercy. One against three never worked, right? So it wasn't my fault that I ended up in the infirmary three times in three weeks, RIGHT? Outnumbered by men twice my size should offer some comfort that I never stood a chance, but I felt humiliated every time they managed to knock me off my feet. Every time Dr. Myers had to examine me and note the bruises, the cuts that needed stitches, and the broken nose, I wanted to crawl away, hide in a corner. 

It got to me. I'm an adult. Little kids got beaten up on their way to school. I got beaten up every time it pleased them, grown-up as I was. I felt like a wimp and with each passing minute, with each sneer, each laughter, I knew they'd come closer to win their fucking game defeating me. 

No. 

Hearing the footsteps behind me, I took a deep breath bracing myself for the next round. This time the surprise factor'd work for me. 

"Fuck off, McBride!" I shouted, turning around in one swift movement. 

As expected, my outburst took their momentum away. Mouths gaping open, the three men stared at me in disbelief. Fuming - well, trying to fume - I placed my fists on the hips. 

"What? Did you suddenly forget what you wanted to say?" I challenged, knowing my little tirade wouldn't last long. So be it. I would be able to live with the fact of being beaten up for having a big mouth. It sure felt better than being beaten up for doing nothing. 

McBride's mouth twitched, as if amused. Then he started laughing. Hard. As a matter of fact, I saw tears pooling in the corner of his eyes, as the laughter shook him. Morse and Fletcher followed his example, their laughter uneasy. 

"Laughter's good for your health," I commented, turning my back on the laughing figures. I tensed as I walked away, expecting the first blow. 

It never came. 

Instead McBride's hand landed on my shoulder, squeezing it hard but not too hard to leave bruises. "Genius, wait up," he said, adding a bit more pressure now to stop my movements. 

I tempted my luck by pushing his arm away. "Back off, man," I said firmly, almost in a snarl. "I'm done being your favourite punching bag!" Spreading my arms I offered my front as a target. 

Exchanging glances with his buddies, McBride nodded. Slowly the three men moved backwards, leaving me alone for the first time since I'd come to Starksville. As they rounded the corner and disappeared from my view, it was my turn to stand there, open-mouthed. 

It had worked! I wanted to jump up in joy, making a fist to punch the air. Blair Sandburg, anthropologist, could blend in with every tribe. YES! If they wanted a tough guy, they'd get a touch guy, damnit. If they wanted to compare their scars at night, then that was what I would do too. Every tribe is leery of outsiders, fearing they will threaten their way of life. I remembered a time I was in Sumatra. They had a thing about facial hair and so I grew a beard until spiders built their nest in there. Gross, yeah, but the tribe finally accepted me after eight weeks. 

McBride's gang accepted me now, I hoped. Still it surprised me that my little outburst was enough to make them back off. Deep inside me I doubted it, but the bigger part of me enjoyed the sudden feeling of peace. 

But, as I said, this was only the beginning. 

* * *

A heavy hand landed on my shoulder. Startled, I flinched and almost dropped my lunch tray. 

"Hey, take it easy, genius," Morse's voice soothed, kneading my shoulder as he spoke. 

I pushed my lunch tray forward, making a face at today's attempt at desert. My composure returned quickly and I snapped, "What do you want, Morse?" 

The pressure became a gentle pat. "Take it easy, genius," Morse said, accepting the cup of pudding with a grimace. Following me, he confessed, "Listen, we've been thinking..." 

"Great, hope you didn't damage anything," my fast mouth erupted. I tensed fearing a blow that surprisingly never came. 

Morse laughed. "I like your style, genius. " He bypassed me and grabbed a banana from a nearby plate. "Want one?" he asked, offering me the fruit generously. 

I shook my head and reached out to help myself to an apple. "You've been thinking?" I repeated, wondering what I'd done to receive the friendly treatment. 

Morse nodded. "Yeah, we decided we'd use a man like you." 

"A man like me?" I echoed, throwing him an incredulous look. Here in public my courage increased. "What for?" 

My opponent manages to make of regret. "I'm sorry about the treatment we gave you, genius. We wanted to see what you've got inside, you know, guts. And you have guts and wits which can be a dangerous combination." 

"So?" I raised my eyebrows in question, not quite following his logic. 

Morse looked around as if to make sure we were out of earshot. "We want you to join us." 

"What is this, a secret brotherhood?" I asked, not really trying to lower my voice. 

"Something like that," Morse replied. "We could use your brains, genius." 

The flattering should've told me something was wrong but I was too pleased that I had finally managed to "blend in" that I didn't notice. "Sure, man, no problem," I said, smiling. 

Morse returned my smile. "Great!" he enthused. After a moment, he sobered. "There's one catch though," he admitted. 

Here it goes, I thought. They probably wanted me to prove my worthiness by passing a test of courage. "I need to prove myself," I said before Morse could come forward. 

"Yeah." He nodded. "I mean, _I_ know you're an asset but the others, you know?" He shook his head sadly. "They want to make sure." 

I visited a tribe in Brazil once, which conducted a piercing session as an initiation ritual. That's how I got three of my ear piercings. It was an inevitable part of their society. Those that wanted to belong had to show their loyalty by sacrificing themselves. Sometimes by action, sometimes, like in Brazil, by decorating a body part with the tribe's insignia. 

"What do you want me to do? Steel the keys to the front gate?" I joked. 

Morse looked over his shoulder again. Then he leaned forward and whispered, "We'll meet after class." 

"Where?" I whispered back. 

"You'll see." With that he was gone, leaving me totally flabbergasted by what had just happened. 

Frank, my roommate, watched me with keen eyes as I sat down at our table, softly humming and smiling. The food still tasted like a pair of old shoes, but right now I didn't care. 

"Seems like you're doing some business with the mob, kiddo," Frank said in a low voice. 

"What do you mean?" I asked innocently, sipping my water and chewing on some bread. 

Frank moved his head, pointing vaguely to the table where Morse and his companions ate their lunch. "Dangerous company." 

I chewed slower. "Dangerous? Why's that?" 

My roommate shrugged. "There's been some talking. That and...," the man trailed off, apparently counting the peas in his soup. 

"Come on, Frank, tell me what you know," I urged. 

"... Morse and McBride are just some low-life goons; They don't do anything without Kincaid's approval," Frank informed, his voice low, almost a whisper now. 

"Who's Kincaid?" I asked, casting another look at Morse's table. 

"Garret Kincaid," Frank supplied the name. "Stay away from that man." 

"Why?" I probed again, wondering if I should tell Frank about the test I had to pass. "Listen, Morse said something about..." I began but started when Frank stood up abruptly. 

"See you tonight, kiddo," he said quickly and left. 

I sensed a presence at my side. Glancing up I recognized McBride. The man smiled broadly. "Hey, genius." 

"Hey, yourself," I greeted, turning my head to follow Frank's sudden retreat. "Yeah, see you tonight, man," I called after him, not knowing if he heard me. 

"So, Morse told us you're willing to undergo the test," McBride said, putting his arm around my shoulders and pulling me closer. 

"I'm your man, guys," I confirmed firmly. Blend in, Sandburg... 

McBride nodded his approval. "Great." He patted my shoulder. "It's not as bad as you might think," he reassured. 

"Don't worry, man, I'm cool." I took another sip from my water. "Just say when and I'll be there." 

McBride grinned. "We're all looking forward to it, genius." 

I smiled, pleased with myself. My little stage play had worked... or so I thought. 

* * *

My heart pounded in my throat. The creative-writing class hadn't managed to take my mind of the anticipation of what would be happening after class. The bell made me jump. With a nod towards Frank I left the classroom. Out of the corner of my eyes I noticed McBride, Morse and Fletcher following me. On the corridor they caught up with me. 

"Hey, genius," They patted my back in greeting. "Are you ready?" 

"Sure," I replied, hoping my face didn't show my fear. "What do I do?" 

Grabbing my elbow McBride guided me down the long hallway. "The test consists of three part, genius. First, we test your patience, second, your endurance and third, your loyalty." 

"Sounds like I'll have to run a marathon," I joked. Patience, endurance, loyaltiy. Didn't sound too bad, did it? 

Morse laughed. "Yeah, that's a good way to describe. A marathon." The other two men joined his laughter. 

We rounded a corner and much to my surprise, McBride's hand steered me towards the bathrooms. As my step slowed, he encouraged me. "Don't worry, genius, this is the only place the guards don't patrol too often. We don't need any disturbances." 

"Right," I agreed, nodding, although my heart rate sped up at the thought. 

As expected, the showers were deserted. As soon as we were inside the white-tiled room, McBride let go off me and shoved me against a wall. I stumbled but managed to regain my balance. 

"Hey, man, what's going on?" 

Morse threw McBride a warning glance, then he turned to me. "All part of the test, genius," he explained by explaining nothing at all. His next words sent shivers up my spine. 

"Strip!" 

"What?" I moved back into the room, shaking my head in disbelief. "What kind of sick game is this, man?" 

It was Fletcher, the man who rarely spoke, who offered at least a plausible reason. "Listen, genius, we --our group-- sometimes need to wait a long time before we can get our hands on information. We need to be patient at all costs. That's why you're here today." 

"Naked?" I challenged. 

McBride chuckled. "You are indeed smart, genius. See, as Fletch said, our patience is often tested over a long period of time. In here, you'll understand, we don't have much time. So we usually add a twist to this test by asking the person to be nude." 

"Oh, okay," I agreed, not completely convinced by the reasoning. Nevertheless, I found myself unbuttoning my shirt and taking off my pants. Within moments I was stark naked, shivering slightly. 

"What now?" 

"Step over here, please," Morse, indicated one of the shower stalls. 

"What for, for crying out loud?" 

"You ask too many questions, genius," McBride warned. "Don't make us gag you." 

I shut up and walked into one of the stalls. 

"Hands up," Morse ordered and restrained my hands to the showerhead. Before I could protest, a cloth covered my eyes, taking away the only control I still had. 

"What's with all this?" Despite McBride's threat, I had to know. "What does this have to do with patience?" 

A hand patted my butt and I jumped. "Hey!" 

"Stay put, genius," Morse's voice whispered in my ear. 

I jumped again at the sound of glass shattering. What the hell was going on? 

Morse was at my side again. "I said to stay put, genius. Let's raise the stakes a little to make you understand." 

Something shattered at my feet. I tried to move away from the unknown sound but as I moved backwards, my bare feet connected with something sharp. I gasped at the unexpected pain and raised my foot. 

"Shhhh, take it easy, genius," Fletcher's voice reached me this time. "You're gonna be just fine. It's your task to stay there until we come back and get you. There's a pool of glass shards on the ground around you, so don't make any sudden moves." 

The hand patted my ass again. "Understood?" Morse said. "You're gonna manage, genius. All you have to do is stand here and wait." 

I nodded. "How long?" 

"Patiieennnce," McBride drawled. "You'll see." 

With that, I was left alone. 

Chapter Sixteen 

Outside the loft the storm still raged mercilessly. Inside the warm glow from the fireplace gave the apartment a cosy feeling. However, the warmth didn't seem to reach the young man sitting on the couch. Huddled into the colorful afghan, Sandburg shivered, his hands engulfing the coffee mug, which had been refilled without him noticing. 

Jim Ellison had listened to his story without a comment. Words had rushed out of Sandburg's mouth, describing the horror and fear in vivid colors. Now he was silent, his eyes fixed on the mug in his hands, but not seeing. He wet his lips a few times to continue but words failed, as the memories rushed back to him. 

"I'm an anthropologist, you know?" Blair repeated finally. "I should've known they were just playing games. Should've known they'd get a kick out of humiliating me. But I didn't see it. I was too stubborn to see what they were doing. I played right into their hands." He chuckled bitterly. "I should've known better." 

Jim cleared his throat. "I don't know what to say, Chief," he began awkwardly, searching for comforting words. "I'm sorry this happened to you. Prison life's cruel and to Kincaid, you probably were the perfect victim." 

The big, blue eyes focused on him, were shining with confusion. "You don't understand, man. Kincaid wasn't part of this," Blair clarified. "He _saved_ my life." Swallowing hard, his view grew distant again. Missing Jim's startled "What?", Sandburg began talking again. This time his voice quivered. 

* * *

Patience. I could do patience, no problem. On my trip to a remote tribe on the Philippines I had managed to stay in the same spot for three days. Without talking, mind you, which was really a chore for me. Observing the tribe's daily routine from a spot high up in the trees, I was more than happy to stay there as long as I had to. The information I gathered was invaluable. I'm patient. I can stand in a shower stall for as long as they want me to. No problem. 

I had no idea how long I'd stood there, bound to the stall, naked and shivering, when the door opened. Blind, I couldn't see the person entering but soon I heard the unmistakable sound of glass grinding under shoes as somebody stepped closer. 

"Who is it?" I asked calmly, though my heart hammered against the inside of my chest. Receiving no answer but the sound of crunching glass, I tried again. "McBride? Morse?" 

The crunching continued for a few minutes, the person moving closer to my naked body. I tried to move into the opposite direction but my range of motion was limited. "Come on, guys, if this is your idea of a test, it's not working." 

My voice echoed from the tiled walls and for a moment I wondered if I had imagined the sounds. I listened but it was silent around me. The crunching was gone and I held my breath trying to focus on somebody breathing behind me. 

I was alone. 

Losing count of time rather quickly, I began writing mental papers in my head. Recollecting memories from my lectures at the university I complied a list of topics I wanted to write about. Occasionally a shiver went through my body as the air drafted around me. The shivers turned into tremors and by the time I heard the door again, my teeth were clattering. 

"Hello?" I asked immediately. No surprise, there was no answer. I straightened my back. If they wanted to play their little mental games, so be it. 

Moments later I shrieked in surprise as the showerhead came on. Cold water rushed over my body, the hard stream painful on my skin. "Hey!" I protested, twisting my body to escape the cold. Suddenly the stream was in my face as somebody pulled at my hair. I closed my mouth but the water kept pouring over my face, into my nose and ears. Sputtering, I tried to take a breath but as soon as I opened my mouth, the cold water rushed inside. I choked, coughing hard and fought to get free. 

Finally my captor released my hair, leaving my gasping for air and spitting out water. I was trying to catch my breath when the stream changed its direction and suddenly hit my genitals. I jumped, stepping into the few remaining shards of glass that hadn't been washing away. "Fuck you!" I shouted, twisting and turning to escape the torturous stream. 

As soon as it had begun, it stopped. Gasping for air, I listened. However, the only sound I could hear was my own racing heart. It drummed rapidly, jumping into my throat, threatening to make me sick. I tried to breathe through my mouth to calm my fluttering heartbeat. Inhaling, exhaling. In and out. 

Then the cold hit me. I'd been cold before but it was no comparison to the tremors that shook my body now. My hair was soaked and, drop after drop, the water began trailing down my back, down my face and chest. I shivered violently and my teeth clattered uncontrollably. 

With the blindfold in place, my world was still dark and silent. I had no way of knowing if company was still here, watching me shiver, watching me hanging in my bonds, naked and helpless. 

"Hello?" I tried, knowing that even if they were watching, they'd probably not answer me. Straining my hearing, I struggled to make out any sounds that indicated a human presence. But there was only silence. 

"Cold and wet is my world," I mumbled, mocking my own, self-inflicted fate. 

* * *

They came back before dinner. Well, Morse did. I could hear the footsteps echoing through the tiled room and tensed, expecting another round of "patience". Moments later the blindfold was yanked off my head. Blinking several times against the sudden brightness, I recognized Morse. 

"We don't want you to miss dinner, genius," Morse informed me as he reached up to loosen my bonds. 

"How generous of you," I snapped, wincing at the pain in my arms now that they were free. 

Morse threw a towel in my face. "Get dressed!" he ordered sharply. I noticed my clothes were still lying in a pile on the floor where I'd left them hours ago. My pants were wet in places from the water but I put them on quickly. It felt good to be dressed and warm again. Tying my shoes, I look up at Morse. 

"What now?" I asked, dreading the answer. 

Morse exposed his teeth in a smile that promised no good. "You're pretty patient, genius," he praised. "Most people usually freak after the first three hours." He patted my shoulder. "You did good." 

I shrugged. "Comes with the job, I guess. I've been to--" 

"The next tests, though, will show if you really have the guts to belong to us," Morse interrupted, not really paying attention to me. He eyed me carefully. "You still want in, right?" he verified. 

I nodded quickly. Despite my fear of what was to come, I didn't want to go back to being the small, frightened kid who could be beaten and humiliated every day. What are you right now? A tiny voice in my head asked mockingly. "Sure, I'm your man," I replied, ignoring my instincts. 

The bell rang, indicating it was supper time. I sighed. Warm food was a lovely thought right now. I was still shivering as Morse and I walked side by side towards the dining room. 

"For the next couple of days you're to watch your diet," Morse said. 

We reached the dining room and subconsciously I sniffed the air for today's menu. "Okay," I agreed without thinking, reaching out to open the door. The babble of voices greeted me. I smiled. The silence of the last few hours had torn at my nerves. But this... it was a good noise. 

Joining the line of inmates, I reached for a tray. Morse's hand stopped me. "No solid food for the next 48 hours," he spoke quietly. 

"What?" I looked at him in disbelief. 

"Part of the 'Endurance' level," Morse explained, taking a tray for himself. "You may drink water or juice as much as you want, but if we see you eating anything, genius..., you'll regret it." 

"You've got to be kidding." I shook my head, reaching out for a tray again. This time Morse didn't stop me, but shrugged. 

"Don't say later I didn't warned you," he muttered. 

"I hear you." Loading my tray with the warm meal of the day, I left the line to search for Frank. 

* * *

Well, Morse was right after all. I didn't eat anything anymore for the next few days. After dinner, with my stomach full and warm, I went to the library to retrieve one of the travel guide books I'd pre-ordered a few days ago. A shiver ran down my spine when I passed the restrooms where I had spent the afternoon. 

"How was dinner?" A voice asked as I walked by. I recognized McBride who stood in the shadow of the door. Behind him I saw Fletcher and Morse. 

Rolling my eyes, I replied harshly, "What do you want now? I thought I passed the Patience level." 

"You did," McBride nodded. "We're just not satisfied with the Endurance results yet." 

"What do you--?" I began, when McBride grabbed me by the collar. "Hey!" I protested. Shoving me into the restroom, McBride and Morse cornered me, while Fletcher watched the door. 

"I thought we had settled this!" I could feel the tiled wall in my back as I watched the two men approach. 

McBride chuckled. "Yes, we did, genius, but you seem to have a problem following orders." 

"What orders?" I asked. 

"Didn't Morse tell you?" McBride asked innocently, exchanging a questioning glance with his comrade. "Not food for the next 48 hours." 

"Oh." I tried a smile to soothe their anger. "Listen, I - I didn't think you'd meant right now, immediately, you know? I thought it would start tomorrow..." I trailed off, knowing I'd already lost the fight. 

Morse smiled his unpleasant smile again. "It's okay, genius. We'll understand that you were a little confused after this afternoon." 

"Yeahh...," I drawled, hoping against hope. 

"Just empty your stomach and we won't mention it again," McBride said casually. 

"What?" I stepped back, hitting the wall behind me. 

"Puke!" Morse clarified. 

"You can't be serious," I spoke up again. Surely, they couldn't ask me to... 

I flinched when McBride pulled me forward and shoved me towards the toilets. I stumbled and dropped onto one knee. Pain shot through my leg and I leaned heavily on the porcelain bowl. 

"Go ahead!" McBride stood behind me. 

"I can't...," Protesting I tried to get up again but McBride grabbed my neck and pushed my head into the toilet. My face hit the small puddle of water and I sputtered, gasping at the sudden assault. 

"Do it now, or we'll help you, genius." Morse threatened. 

Fighting McBride's iron-like grip, I barely hovered above the water. Knowing I didn't stand a chance against the three of them, I took a deep breath. The unpleasant odors of urine and feces should've helped but as I tensed up working on my throat and stomach muscles, nothing happened. I struggled, trying to retch and force my dinner back up. My stomach spasmed a few times but settled again. 

"I--c-can't," I groaned, holding onto the toilet. 

"Try it again!" McBride commanded sharply. 

So I did but, again, nothing but saliva came up. I spat into the toilet and moaned before I worked my throat once again. A feeling of almost bliss flooded through me as I felt the first remains of my dinner coming up. However, the natural instinct took over and before I knew, I swallowed hard and my stomach accepted the food again. Sweat broke out on my forehead, as my whole body fought against the forced retching. 

While McBride still held my neck, Morse knelt beside me. "Open up, genius," he said, his fleshy hand reaching out for my face. 

"N--nno," I protested weakly, knowing what he wanted to do. "I--can do it. I can do it," I chanted, taking a deep breathe to attempt again. As I opened my mouth, Morse reacted quickly. Two fingers probed inside, pressing down on my tongue. I moaned, struggling against the invasion. The grip on my neck increased, pushing me down while Morse's fingers jammed in the back of my throat. 

After several agonising moments, my body finally gave up. My stomach rebelled and Morse almost didn't have enough time to pull out his fingers. I vomited into the toilet, sobbing in relief and frustration. 

My lesson of endurance had begun. 

Chapter Seventeen 

The funny thing about going without solid food for 48 hours was that, when said 48 hours were over, your stomach cheated on you when you were allowed to eat again. Dinner was served on the second day and although I was hungry as hell, the first few bites sent a wave of cramps through my stomach. It took me two days to get used to food again. 

The lesson wasn't over though. McBride and his goons approached me after our mutual creative-writing class. With smiling faces they waited for me to exit the classroom. As if we were old buddies, McBride patted my shoulder. 

"Hey, genius! Ready for the next part?" 

The 'fuck-you' sat on the tip of my tongue but I swallowed it. Instead I plastered a smile on my face. "Cut the small talk, man, and let's get to it." I replied grumpily, wondering for the umpteenth time what I had gotten myself into. As much as I hated their perverted initiation ritual, I didn't want to go back. A few more days and I'd belong. I could surely 'endure' that. Inwardly, I flinched at my choice of words. 

McBride raised his hand. "Easy, genius, don't bite my head off." 

I never got a chance to reply. Out of the corner of my eyes I saw Morse's fist coming up. The impact sent me backwards. The world exploded in darkness before I could feel any pain. 

* * *

I came awake slowly. My eyelids were heavy, struggling to open. It was hard to focus on a conscious thought. My jaw hurt. What happened? Finally my eyes opened but all I could see was darkness. A black hole, giving no indication of what had happened to me or where I was. My eyelashes brushed over something soft, a cloth, in front of my eyes. A bandage or a blindfold? 

I opened my mouth to speak, to shout, to yell, but my muscles refused their services. My throat seemed to tighten as I struggled for sound. Nothing. A surge of fear ravaged my body; the thought of being paralyzed left my heart beating like a hammer against the inside of my chest. But then the information registered with my brain that I could actually feel my body. I'm gagged. 

The memories rushed back. 

Starksville Prison. 

The gang. My desire to belong. 

Patience. 

Endurance. 

Loyalty. 

Almost there. 

Cool air wafted across my body. Shivers ran down my spine as I realized I was lying on a hard surface, naked and bound, my legs spread wide, exposing my most private parts. I tried to close my thighs to regain part of my modesty but to no avail. I couldn't move. 

I gasped, or at least, I thought I did. I'm not sure. Realization hit me full force, sensations crashing through me. A hand, gloved but slippery, touched my ass, prying my cheeks apart. Expecting pain I tried to clench my muscles against any intrusion. Restraints prevented any other movement. I wanted to cry out but, like before, no sound escaped the gag. My eyes fought to penetrate the blackness, to clear my vision. 'What is happening to me?' my mind screamed. There was no answer, just the fear of not knowing. 

All I knew for sure was McBride and his buddies must be here. To test my endurance, as they'd said. To humiliate me, to make me feel helpless. They wanted to break me, spirit and mind. 

I'd had enough. I wanted out and I knew it was too late. I agreed to this freely, out of my own mind. There was no reason for me to complain. I HAD chosen my fate, offering willingly in order to belong. My desire to belong turned into need... my need for survival. 

The hand on my ass was firm yet gentle. A fingertip touched my anus, a feather light gesture, and a caress I didn't expect. It felt good. The thought startled me. Another tender stroke and the finger were replaced by something velvet-like, maddeningly soft. A feather drew small circles around my opening, sending spikes of pleasure through my body. Over and over again, the intoxicating sensation repeated, only stopping briefly to poke at my entrance and then resuming the sweet agony. 

Much to my own horror, arousal spread through me. My cock hardened and behind the blindfold my eyes widened in despair at the betrayal. 

"Seems that you like that," a voice crooned into my ear. It was McBride's. 

Trying to shake my head in denial, I'm reminded that I cannot move. Instead I moan, trying to shout through the gag. I'm not enjoying this! It's just nerve endings responding to stimulation. My brain and my heart loathe it. My cock swelled even more as the feather continued its travel. 

"Oh, what a sight, genius," from the other side, Morse's voice whispered into my ear. "You're a quite a beauty. Feels great, doesn't it?" 

I shuddered as Morse's tongue circled my ear. Licking. Then he bit my earlobe, gently and tenderly. The sensation, unwanted, yet wickedly arousing, surged through me. My erection throbbed, spurred on by Morse's terrible seduction. 

"We know you like this, genius." McBride again from the other side. His warm breath blew into my right ear. "How does it feel, kiddo? Does it make you hot, hard, harder... yeah, I can see you like this." 

Behind the blindfold I closed my eyes as my body drove towards climax. I didn't want to, but I knew it was only a matter of mere seconds now when the invisible line was crossed. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, the heat between my legs increased, harder... as McBride had said. Harder. I tried to arch my back, struggling against my bonds. It felt so good. 

The movement of the feather stopped abruptly. "That's enough for now," Morse announced at the same moment. 

My heart raced and my harsh breathing wet the gag in my mouth. Still throbbing mercilessly , my hard-on begged for release, becoming painful with each passing second. Moaning again, I squirmed unsuccessfully. 

"That's enough!" McBride repeated but I didn't understand what he meant. Only moments later, someone slapped my burning erection. I gasped into my gag at the sudden assault but my desire did not waver. Breathing heavily through my nose I longed for their next move. I wanted to come so badly. No matter what. 

"You _really_ need to learn to obey orders, genius," McBride growled near my ear. "Fletcher." It sounded like an invitation. 

It was only seconds later when Fletcher joined their play. It seemed like an eternity to me. I could feel my heartbeat in the tip of my cock, pulsating like gleaming lava. A rough, callused hand touched my balls. The touch ignited the fire in me and my cock exploded in a climax I had never felt before. My lungs threatened to burst, as I wanted to scream in ecstasy. Then, my world of pleasure vanished as quickly as it had built up. The hand gripped my balls hard, increasing the pressure and squeezing violently until I bit down hard on my gag, screaming mutely. 

"Fletcher." McBride's voice stopped my torment. The hand left my balls but the agony remained. 

"See how important it is to obey order, genius?" Morse lectured. 

Breathing heavily and trying to relax as much as possible, I grunted an inaudible 'yes'. I could feel saliva running out of the corner of my mouth, pooling at my throat. The pain subsided only slowly and my cock tingled in the aftermath of an intoxicating orgasm. 

"Very well." Morse patted my shoulder. "If you liked this, you're gonna love our next little test of endurance." 

McBride was close to my ear again. "Can you imagine how it feels to have a cock buried deep inside your ass?" 

My heart leapt into my throat. I grunted again, trying to get the words out, trying to avoid the inevitable. Tensing my muscles I strained against my bonds but they held me firmly in place. 

"What? I can't hear you," McBride mocked. "Yeah, I know you want this." His hard voice gave the order. "Fletcher." 

The rustling of clothes sent shivers down my spine. I knew what Fletcher was doing. I knew what would happen to me next. 

"You know, genius," Morse began. "...and I'm sure you KNOW this..." He laughed a little at his words. "After all you're a fucking genius so you must know this. Fucking a genius!" His laughter grew. "What do you think, Fletcher? How does he look?" 

"A little small if you ask me," the man said. 

Someone, Fletcher probably, pried my ass cheeks apart. I clenched my muscles to prevent his actions but his fingers were inside me before I could form a logical thought. Pain shot through me. 

"He's tight, there's gonna be lotsa tearing," Fletcher predicted. He probed my hole roughly. 

"Anyway," Morse continued. "Being fucked like that can be painful but it can also be the ride of your life, genius." He moved closer so that he could speak into my ear again. "What do you want it to be?" He patted my shoulder again. "Let's hear it!" With that he ripped off my gag! 

I coughed and inhaled deeply. Fresh air filled my lungs and I accepted it greedily. For a moment all I could think about was breathing, getting precious oxygen into starving cells. 

"I can't hear you," Morse prompted. 

I yelped - and this time a real sound escaped my throat - as Fletcher's painful probing continued. "Please... please don't rape me," I whispered hoarsely. "Don't rape me, please, don't do that to me." 

"Fletcher?" McBride posed an unspoken question. 

"Very difficult. Feels like he's air-sealed down here." Fletcher informed, jamming his fingers into me again. 

Moaning, I repeated my plea. "Please don't rape me, please. Don't rape me." I knew I couldn't stop them but my fear eliminated any logical thought, making me beg for mercy like a beaten puppy.   
"Dontrapemepleasedontrapemepleasedontrapemeplease..." 

"What did you just say?" Morse asked as if he's heard my pleas for the first time. "WHAT did you just say?" he screamed into my ear. 

"P---pplease d-don't...r-r-rrape mmeee," I stuttered, fearing what might happen, and fearing what already had. 

"Run that by me again?" Morse requested. 

"P---pplease d-don't...r-r-rrape mmeee." Tears ran down my cheeks. 

"I'm sure you can do better than that," McBride encouraged from the other side. 

Taking a deep breath, I tried to collect my bearings. "P-please don't let him rape me," I repeated, flinching as Fletcher apparently added another finger to violate my body. 

"I need some lube," Fletcher concluded. "Don't wanna hurt myself in there." 

"Wet them good!" came the order as Fletcher's fingers poked at my mouth, demanding entry. "Remember, it's your skin," he added laughingly. 

The bile rose in my throat at the thought of sucking the man's fingers, but obeyently I opened my mouth. His fingers were thick and meaty and I had to suppress the urge to just BITE them off. I sucked the fingers, trying to work as much moisture around them as I could produce. 

"God, the kid's talented!" Fletcher exclaimed. "I wonder what would it feel like to have my cock sucked like that?" 

I shivered at his words but continued licking and wetting his fingers, trying not to imagine what would happen in just a few minutes. Finally the digits left my mouths. Gasping for air, I was glad to be rid of them. At the same time my heart rate sped up. They'd rape me. 

"Please don't rape me, man," I tried again, hoping against all odds they'd show mercy. "NO!" I shouted as Fletcher's moist fingers entered my backside again. Deeper than before, they filled me, stretching me painfully despite the lubrication. I jerked as a jolt of pleasure surged through me. I moaned when Fletcher hit the spot again. My body responded accordingly and my cock woke to new life. 

"Look at this!" McBride chuckled. "What's the fuss, genius, you can't fool us. You're enjoying this!" 

"No!" I protested weakly, knowing my body spoke a different language, betraying me. "Please...," I moaned, as Fletcher's fingers stabbed inside me. 

"I think he's ready now," Fletcher announced, breathing hard himself now. His fingers left me, being replaced with another unwelcome intruder. I felt his hard flesh at my entrance. It felt huge, hot, throbbing against me. 

"Oh god, please, don't do it!" I sobbed as my cock deflated in the turmoil of sensations. 

Morse was back at my side. "Well, genius, there is an alternative," he said while Fletcher threatened to enter me. 

"I'll do anything you want, j--just please ...don't rape me, don't rape me," I promised while I felt Fletcher's flesh against mine. 

"It's gonna be painful, genius," Morse warned, his voice almost passionate. "You know, this little fucking here would bring you an exquisite mixture of pain and ultimate pleasure, I assure you...," he trailed off. 

"No! I--- please... I'll take the alternative," I said, sighing with relief when Fletcher's presence left my ass. 

"...the alternative though is just pain, genius. Endure it without a sound and you'll be part of the gang." 

"And if you do make a sound, we're back to square one and Fletcher'll have his way with you," McBride explained. His voice took on a sad a tone. "If you ask me, I'd go for Fletcher." 

"No, I can endure it," I assured them. Anything, but this. 

"Very well," Morse said. "Your silence starts now, genius. Do we hear one single tone coming out of you, Fletcher'll fuck your ass. Endurance, remember?" 

I nodded, too afraid to give him a vocal confirmation. 

"Fletcher!" I flinched, remembering too well the single-word orders that had brought Fletcher into action. This time, however, he touched my almost gently. His big hands spread my ass cheeks wide, exposing my center for everyone to see. 

"I can imagine why you want him, Fletch, he's gorgeous," Morse's voice praised but I just stared at the blackness of the blindfold, hoping to endure whatever sadistic test was put upon me. 

Something soft touched my anus. For a moment I thought the feather was back. "Feels nice, huh?" Morse asked, brushing the object across my ass and back. "Yes, it feels nice, genius," Morse chortled at the sight of my hardening penis. "Do you know what it is?" 

I kept silent, remembering the instructions. Actually it felt very nice and I enjoyed the gentle swelling of my cock. 

"It's a simple cotton ball, genius," Morse said, pressing the object against my anus now. "Open up," he ordered pushing it inside. His long finger entered me and for a moment my erection deflated. I pressed my lips together to prevent any sounds. Fletcher's fingers had been painful but to have Morse's inside me was downright disgusting. He pushed far inside me, burying the cotton ball as deep as he could. 

"Here comes another one," Morse announced, repeating the procedure. He did it several times until my ass felt quite full but not uncomfortable so. My cock had come to full attention again and I breathed heavily through my mouth. Finally Morse patted my ass cheeks affectionately. "Now comes the hard part, genius." 

I tensed, anticipating pain but all I sensed at first was a little pressure as if something else had been inserted into my ass. Then the strong odor of rubbing alcohol tickled in my nose. I kept silent, as instructed. I started to feel a cold sensation as the cotton balls inside me soaked up moisture and expanded slowly. 

The sensation was subtle at first. The soft objects absorbed the moisture that slowly tickled inside me. The cotton balls tingled gently, like a buzz, arousing me further. The tingling then turned into comfortable warmth that spread through my ass, engulfing me like a cozy blanket. 

"Do you like it, genius?" McBride asked with a smile in his voice. 

"It's called 'balls of fire'," Morse added. 

It was then when the burning started. Gone was the warmth, gone was the tingling. The cotton walls had fully expanded, now causing a burning irritation deep inside me. The sensation increased with each intake of breath and I felt my breath coming in rapid, sharp gasps. My heart started racing as the fire in my bottom raged. I bore down, trying to dislodge the torturous objects. My anus contracted and expanded at my efforts but the cotton balls, now heavy and full with whatever and been released into me, stayed in place. Waves of excruciating pain rolled over me, bathing me in cold sweat. I bit down hard on my lips until I tasted blood. The burning still seemed to increase driving me to the edge of my consciousness. I tried to suppress any sounds. However, a desperate sob escaped my throat as I tried to control my breathing. 

"What was that?" Morse asked innocently. 

"Sounded like...," McBride trailed off. 

"Let's see," Morse said while my lips became a tight line of pain and barrier of all sounds. Through the fire inside me I hardly felt Morse's fingers had he entered me. Pushing and squeezing the cotton balls, more liquid came out and finally I broke down. 

"Ohgodohmygod, take it out, please, take it out...," I gasped breathlessly, not realizing immediately that I had broken the rule. "It hurts...," I moaned, tearing at my bonds like mad. I heard the command, "Fletcher!", through a haze of pain. Fingers poked at me again, groping for the soaked objects and pulling them out at last. Still, the burning didn't subside immediately. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I started crying as relief and horror flooded through me. 

"Well, genius, I knew you'd fail miserably," Morse admitted. "Too bad..." 

Before I could form a conscious thought, Fletcher's rubber-clad cock poked at my entrance. "NO!" I gasped, "no, please... don't do that!" The blindfold was wet with tears and as I sobbed out my despair, my nose started running. Snot slowly tickled over my lips, mingled with tears and blood. 

"McBride! Morse! Fletcher!" A loud voice thundered through the room. 

For a moment time stood still. Fletcher froze in his motion; the two other men seemed to be too shell-shocked to move. And I? I just lay there with my heart in my throat, every muscle in my body tensed up. I listened. The voice was familiar but my fuzzy brain couldn't provide a name. 

"Sir." 

"Commander!" 

"Sir." 

The voice spoke again. "What the hell are you doing here?" 

"Sir...," McBride began. "Just teaching..." 

"Get him loose. NOW!" The voice commanded sharply. A voice that was used to uttering orders, a voice that was in charge. 

"Yes, sir." Morse. 

Suddenly, my bonds were gone. I could move, I was free! Reacting on pure instinct, I scrambled off the bed, tearing off the blindfold as I hit the hard floor. My legs and arms were numb from their long imprisonment but I didn't care. Crawling, pulling myself forward with a strength I couldn't understand where it came from, I blindly reached for the man who rescued me. My savior. On my knees I sobbed at his feet. 

"Hey, kid, take it easy," he spoke in a gentle voice. "Come on, it's okay. You're safe." He crouched down and touched my shoulder. Without sense or reason I reached for him. Through my tears I could see his face for the first time: Garrett Kincaid, my Blessed Protector. 

Chapter Eighteen 

"Oh my God." The whisper left his mouth before Jim could help it. Too great was his shock, the detestation and compassion. During his military training and years in the army, Ellison had seen bad things and heard of worse. However, nothing seemed comparable to the horrors the silent, young man sitting on his couch had gone through. 

Playing with the now empty coffee mug, Blair traced the colorful pattern of the pottery. His fingertips roamed over the mug as if reading a secret language. "You know, considering what had happened before, Garrett treated me like a royalty," Blair explained, his voice low and hesitating like he had to test the words of his reasoning before speaking them out loud. "He... he...," searching for the right phrase, Blair stared into his mug, noticing for the first time that it was empty. "... was good to me," the young man said at last. 

"He was good to you?" Jim couldn't quite hold back the mockery that dripped through his voice. "Sorry, Chief, I have to tell you that I have a hard time associating a man like Kincaid with the word 'good'." Jim shook his head. God, was it possible that the kid was too blind to see what sick game had been played? Was he STILL too blind to recognise the plot that had been played against him? 

Another shiver ran through Sandburg's body. Snuggling deeper into the warmth of the afghan, Blair placed the coffee mug on the table. He shook his head as Jim went to refill it. "Thanks, man, but coffee isn't really my thing." He smiled sadly. 

"Want anything else?" Jim asked, taking the mug, but waiting for an answer. "I could make a hot chocolate or something." He suddenly felt like doing something normal, occupying his mind with something mundane for just a few minutes. When Blair didn't respond, he added, "I think there's a couple of bags of chamomile tea left." Running out of options Jim was glad to see that Blair quickly raised his eyes at the mention of tea. However, the young man remained silent. 

"Tea it is," Jim concluded and walked to the kitchen island. 

"He was _good_." 

Roaming through the cupboard in search of the promised tea, Jim paused briefly. Sensing Sandburg's need to tell the whole story, he considered his reply. 

"I can only judge from my point of view, Sandburg," he said finally spotting the tea bags behind sugar and salt. "Kincaid's a terrorist and a murderer. That's both bad in my book." Jim retrieved a clean mug and prepared the tea. "You, on the other hand, experienced him in a totally different environment and must have come to your own conclusion." He shrugged, setting up the teakettle and waited. 

"You sound like me," Blair said, a small smile swinging in his voice. 

"I do?" 

"I think our jobs aren't so different. I'm an anthropologist... I mean I was an anthropologist and study cultures and primitive tribes. You're a cop and study human behavior, modern tribes if you like." Blair untangled himself from the confines of the couch and walked over to the window. The night sky was black like oil, only sometimes disturbed by forked lightening. 

"What did your observation skills tell you about Kincaid?" Frowning and recalling Blair's story, Jim inquired, "What did you call him? Your Blessing?" 

"Blessed Protector," Blair corrected from his distant spot by the window. "The Chinese people believe that when someone saves somebody's life, it makes him the Blessed Protector." Staring at the dark night Blair hugged himself and started rubbing his arms. Tremors ran through his body again but he didn't return to the warmth of the couch. 

"Garrett protected me. I didn't see McBride and his buddies for several days, they were probably too shocked to see their boss taking care of me," Blair explained. "When they showed up at breakfast one morning, Garrett made perfectly clear that I wasn't harmed, touched or looked at the wrong way without the direst consequences for the person who did." Another smile crept into the young man's face. "Man, they were so scared of him." 

The teakettle whistled and Jim made the tea. The scent of chamomile made his nose itch and Jim wondered briefly since when it had smelled so strongly. "So, you and Kincaid lived happily ever after?" 

"No." 

"No?" Jim prompted placing the steaming tea cup on the living-room table. 

Blair had still turned his back on him, talking to his reflection in the window. "Garrett's protection ..." he swallowed hard, "... it didn't come free of charge." 

//Of course not.// Jim thought grimly but kept silent. 

"We made this deal. Nobody would ever come near me again if I offered my... I mean if I pleased him sexually and gave in to his needs whenever he wanted me." A shrug accompanied the revelation. "It wasn't too bad. He never hit me or--or forced himself on me." The voice began to tremble and then Blair turned around. "If you think about it, I gave him freely what McBride and his buddies threatened to take." Tears pooled in the corner of his eyes, sparkling in the gentle flicking of the fireplace. "I was an idiot!" 

"No," Jim shook his head and slowly walked over to the window. "You were afraid and chose the less painful way out. That's not foolish, that's smart." 

Standing face to face, Blair lowered his gaze as if he was ashamed. "I feel so stupid, dirty.. ." He wiped his eyes. 

"I want to help you, Chief," Jim announced, startling himself a little with the open statement. "I need YOUR help though to do it." 

Blair laughed joylessly. "Great idea, man. How can I help? I'm good at blow jobs and on all fours." He turned around, reddening, after the words had barely left his mouth. "Sorry," he mumbled. "This must be sickening for you." 

"Yes, it is," Jim admitted. "Especially when I imagine what that bastard asked of you." Tentatively, he reached out to touch Sandburg's shoulder. "Look, when this storm's over we'll talk to Simon and explain the situation. With your help, with your inside knowledge, we can bring Kincaid to justice." Jim tried to put as much confidence in his words as possible. He knew that only a miracle could save the kid from prison. Jim squeezed his shoulder, rubbing it gently in reassurance. 

"It's funny, whatever I did... whatever I gave him, he never--," Blair trailed off, biting his lips. His eyes filled and he fixed his glance on the window again. 

Feeling the quivering muscles under his touch and the barely suppressed emotions, Jim's voice was low. "What is it?" 

Shaking his head slowly, Blair inhaled deeply. "It's nothing, really. A stupid little thing." 

"Tell me," Jim encouraged, feeling the odd urge to hear the answer so that he could offer comfort. 

"He never touched me like this," Blair confessed. "He enjoyed the sex and the mere sight of me getting all excited too drove him crazy. I was thrilled to make him feel good ... I was almost proud." Tears pearled down his cheeks. "But he never seemed to care how I felt. I would've given anything for a gesture like this or a hug." Another sad smile flashed across his face. "I know, pretty pathetic." 

Jim didn't think about his actions, he just let his instincts take over. In a swift motion he turned Blair around, facing the miserable features and taking in the trail of tears. The young man flinched at the unexpected touch, probably anticipating a violent reaction. Instead Jim pulled him closer and engulfed him in a hug. Tense muscles fought him for a moment but then the smaller body started to relax against him. 

"It's okay, just relax," Jim soothed, still feeling tiny tremors wracking the young man in his arms. "It's okay for now, you're safe." With one hand he began stroking the long hair, pressing Blair's head against his chest. "You're safe." 

Tentatively, Blair returned the embrace. Jim's body heat enveloped him, the strong arms lending support and giving strength. Giving in to the hug, Blair leaned against the man, his hands holding on to shirt, wrinkling the fabric with clenched fists. 

"Everything's gonna be okay," Jim spoke, resting his chin on Blair's head and enjoying the subtle tickling of curls. 

They stood like that for a while, neither of them saying anything. Following Blair's example, the storm outside seemed to calm down, finally captivated. In the distance, thunder still rumbled and a few stray blazes of lightening illuminated the sky. From somewhere Jim could hear sirens, probably the fire department out on a call. 

"Thanks," Blair mumbled finally, his voice thick. "I --," Faltering he just repeated, "Thanks, Jim." 

At the same moment there was a loud knock at the door. Both men started, Blair shuddering violently and trying to bury himself into Jim's arms. A voice followed the knock. "Ellison! Open the door!" 

Jim relaxed. "It's Simon," he announced, letting go of Blair. "He'll help us." 

"Are you sure?" Blair asked worriedly as he followed Jim back to the living room. "He ... doesn't know, he might not understand," he pointed out, leaving it up to Jim to figure out the rather cryptic words. 

The captain knocked again. "Damnit, Ellison! I don't care if you're asleep, just open the door before I break in!" 

"I'm coming, sir, just a minute!" Jim shouted back, his look traveling from the front door to Blair's frightened blue eyes. 

"You'd better!" Banks roared but the banging ceased. 

Jim's thoughts raced like a trapped lab rat, searching for an escape. Blair was right. He was still a wanted criminal. "Okay, let me talk to him," the detective decided, taking Blair's arm and leading him the storage room. "Wait here until I tell you." 

Nodding Blair stepped inside the small room. Boxes and shelves lined the wall, offering not much room for comfort. Only a curtain separated the room from the kitchen area. 

"Don't make a sound," Jim whispered as he arranged the curtain. 

"Ellison!" Banks assaulted the door again. "What's the problem, detective?" 

"Coming, sir," Jim called over his shoulder, glancing once more to the curtain. Then he walked over to the door, while his ears suddenly picked up a racing heartbeat. Stopping dead in his tracks, Jim looked back to Blair's hiding place, startled. How could he hear a person's heartbeat? 

"Damnit, Ellison! Get the door open before I forget myself!" 

Banks' loud voice shook him out of his thoughts again. With two long strides Jim was at the front door and opened it. 

"Sorry, sir," he greeted his superior. 

"What's the hell is wrong with you, Jim?" Simon stomped into the loft without a greeting. "Carolyn and I have been trying to reach you for hours." 

Jim nodded guiltily. "I know, sir. Carolyn left a few messages on the machine. I tried to reach you but the phone lines went out." He shrugged and waved into the general direction of the balcony windows. "The storm, sir." 

Turning around Simon stared down at Jim. "Of course, the storm, detective! How do you think I got soaked like this?" He spread his arms. Water ran out of his long coat, pooling at his feet. 

"Sorry, sir, do you want some coffee?" Jim offered. 

"No, we need to talk, Jim," Simon barked. "Kincaid and his men escaped." 

"I know, Captain," Jim admitted, keeping his face neutral. "5 people dead." In his ears the pounding heartbeat accelerated. 

"We're searching every acre from here to the Canadian border," Simon informed, pulling a cigar out of his pocket. "A friend of mine works for the Canadian Mounted Police and he promised to keep an eye open on their side." 

"Very good, sir." 

Simon raised his eyebrows at Jim's short replies. "Are you okay, Jim? You seem to be a little distracted." 

"I'm fine, sir," Jim replied, adding a quick smile. "However, I have news that might help us find Kincaid." 

"News? What kind of news?" Simon frowned, casting a quick glance through the loft as if expecting something or ... someone. He stared at the living room table. 

"Information about Kincaid's possible whereabouts, his plans, his allies," Jim offered following Simon's searching look. The cup of tea, cold now, stood on the living room table. So did Jim's empty coffee mug. //Shit.// 

"Where would you get such sensitive information, Jim?" Simon asked slowly, taking in the utensils. He spotted Jim's leather jacket on the floor by the couch, still soaked and wet. 

"Simon, you need to hear me out," Jim began knowing he had to do some fast talking until it was too late. "What if there's someone who can provide such information? Insider information? We could nail Kincaid in the blink of an eye just based on a statement." 

"What's the catch?" Simon asked, reaching inside his coat. 

"There's no catch, sir. We make a deal with the DA and Kincaid will never ever see the light of day again." Jim wondered if Simon found his reasoning as lame as it was. 

"We'd need evidence," Simon said. "Can your source provide that?" 

Jim nodded. "I'm sure he can." 

"You're _sure_?" Simon repeated. "That's not really enough, detective." 

"Just... have an open mind when you talk to him, that's all I ask, Simon." Jim walked over to the curtain, moving it aside. "Come on, talk to him. It's okay." 

Banks' eyes went wide. "You've got to be kidding, Jim," he murmured. 

"It's okay, sir, Blair's..." Jim began, leading Blair into the living room. Before he could finish the sentence or offer further explanations, Banks had drawn his gun. 

"Put your hands in the air!" The dark-skinned man ordered, pointing this weapon at the young criminal. 

"Simon, no!" Jim shouted. 

"You're out of your mind, Ellison," Simon bellowed. "This could cost you your badge." Without losing aim, the captain reached into his coat again producing a pair of handcuffs. 

"Blair Sandburg, you're under arrest..." he threw the restraints at Ellison. "Cuff him, detective!" 

"Damnit, Simon, you don't understand," Jim replied, knowing at the same time that he didn't have a choice. He had to win Simon's to his side in order to help Blair. Taking the cuffs, he gently touched the younger man's arm. 

"Come on, it's gonna be okay, I promise." 

Blair had gone white as a sheet. "I'm not going back, Jim," he whispered as the cold metal circled his wrists. "Don't make me go back..." 

Chapter Nineteen 

Simon Banks was a no-nonsense person, someone to be reckoned with. Thus it shouldn't have surprised Ellison as he found himself gently pushing Blair into the backseat of Banks' car. Still, Jim was mad. Simon hadn't let him explain the situation, the man had simply judged by what his instincts had told him, years of police experience taking over, neglecting the human side. 

Admittedly, a few days ago Jim would've reacted exactly the same way. Having heard the pitiful tale he'd heard just a couple of hours ago, the detective loathed the cold treatment Simon was giving Sandburg. The kid didn't deserve it. And Simon didn't know, Blair was right about that. 

Aside from the whispered pleas not to take him back to jail, the young man had stayed remarkably calm. Jim had slapped the handcuffs on him, loosely, and on their way to the station, he'd stayed close by, opting for the backseat. 

"Trust me, Chief, everything's gonna be okay," Jim promised and Blair nodded silently, his eyes still wide with fear. 

It was 3.30 a.m. when they arrived at the station. 

"Take him down to booking and then I expect you in my office," Simon ordered sharply, slamming the door of his car to emphasize his point. 

Blair stiffened, his step slowing down. Again, Jim thought he could hear the young man's heartbeat roaring through his head. 

"Simon!" he called after his superior. "I think we'd better take him to an interview room," Jim suggested calmly, knowing he couldn't convince Simon of Blair's story just yet. He had to play by Banks' rules. Beside him, Blair relaxed a little, but his heart rate didn't slow. 

For a moment Simon watched the his best detective, weighing his options. Then he nodded. "Okay," he agreed. Turning around he spoke over his shoulder, "Take him upstairs and get him some breakfast." 

"Breakfast, sir?" Jim echoed. 

"Whatever." Simon replied gruffly and entered the station building. 

"What was that?" Blair asked watching the tall man disappear. 

Taking a key out of his pocket, Jim smiled briefly. "That, Chief, was the first step into the right direction." He unlocked the handcuffs. "The rest is up to you." 

Rubbing his wrist, Blair nodded slowly. "He doesn't strike me the kind who's interested in my life story." 

"He's a good captain," Jim reassured him. "Give me a few minutes and he'll be all mush." 

A smile brightened Sandburg's face. "Well, I don't believe it, man, but thanks anyway." His face sobered. "Really, thanks... for, you know, listening. Being there and not judging." 

"It shows great courage to tell me your story, Chief," Jim replied. "I don't know if I would have the guts to tell it to anyone, let alone a complete stranger." 

"You're not a stranger," Blair revised. "This might sound really silly, but I knew I could tell you about it. It felt like I've known you for a long time already." In a lower voice he added, "I wish I had." 

A sudden knot in his throat threatened to suffocate him. Jim patted Blair's shoulder gently. "Let's go. We have a grumpy captain to perrsuade." Mouthing a mute "Me, too" into the cold night air, Jim guided Blair inside. 

* * *

The bullpen was nearly deserted. Only a few detectives on the nightshift sat at their desks, typing reports or speaking on the phone. Carolyn Plummer spotted Jim immediately as he entered. Approaching her ex-husband, she was greeted with a raised hand, fighting off any comments before she could say a word. 

"Not now, Carolyn," Jim said, his face hard, jaw muscles playing. 

"But Jim, I have...," Plummer called after him as he rapped at Simon's office door and entered before the welcome came from inside. 

"Come on in, close the door and sit down, Jim," Simon greeted him. 

"Simon...," Jim began, remaining standing in front of Banks' desk. 

"Sit down, detective!" 

"Yes, sir." Jim reminded himself that he had to stay calm to play the cards in Sandburg's favour. Emotional outbursts wouldn't gain him anything. "Sorry, sir." He added and sat down in front of the large desk. 

"You look like you could use a good coffee, Jim," Simon observed in a friendlier voice. He turned around to his coffee-maker. "My cousin sent me this new blend, a new harvest, actually, from Hawaii. I've told him that he really didn't have to send me coffee wherever he goes but I guess he wants to surprise me with new flavors." 

"Thank you," Jim said as a steaming cup was placed before him, but didn't touch it. 

"Milk or sugar?" 

"No, thanks, sir." Jim replied. "Simon..." 

"Where's the kid?" Simon interrupted, showing him again who was the commanding officer in this room. 

Jim looked at the closed window blinds, then back at the captain. "He's in interview room 2, sir." Awaiting the next question, he remained silent. His piercing blue eyes blazed but, unfortunately, didn't intimidate his opponent. 

Simon nodded, watching his detective as he was being watched. For a while nobody spoke. From the ever-playing muscles in Jim's jaws, the captain could tell that the man was anything but relaxed. 

"What demon drove you to shelter an escaped criminal, Jim?" Simon asked calmly. 

"He came to my place, Captain," Jim began. "He came out of is own free will and he wants to make a deal." He felt the urge to say more, to shout, to yell but he knew the moment he did Simon would end their conversation and sever Blair's lifeline. 

"You said he and Kincaid were lovers," Simon remembered. 

The prominent jaw muscles twitched again. "Yes, they were," Jim confirmed stoically. 

"Not anymore?" Simon probed, leaving through the file - Sandburg's file - on his desk. 

"No. Sandburg escaped yesterday afternoon." 

"Escape, huh?" Disbelief coloured Banks' voice. "And he came straight to you?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Why?" 

Jim shifted in his chair. "Why, sir?" 

"Yes, why, Jim?" Simon nodded again. "Why did he come to you instead of running away and hiding somewhere safe, far away from Kincaid and the police?" 

"He doesn't want to run anymore," Jim said simply. "He's ... he was forced into this situation, Simon. He had no choice." 

"That's a lame excuse," Simon replied. "What happened, Jim? Did Kincaid threaten to kill him if he didn't do what he said?" The sarcasm in Banks' voice was clearly evident. It sickened Jim. 

"Yes, sir, that's exactly what would've happened," Jim said sharply. Bits and pieces of Blair's initiation lesson flashed back to him. He wanted payback, revenge for the suffering of a man he barely knew. 

"This sounds like one of the daily soaps my wife used to watch," Simon remarked without a smile. 

Jim looked up, his eyes firing more blue ice towards the captain. "With all due respect, sir, we are not talking about television. This is damn, FUCKING reality and the kid would've died if it wasn't for the choice he made. Like all of us would, he chose the lesser evil!" 

"I've never seen a criminal get under your skin like this," Simon said calmly. "Why's that?" 

Jim jumped up. "Sandburg isn't a criminal! If you had heard his story, you wouldn't dare making assumptions about his reasons or his loyalty." Furiously, Jim walked to the window and stared into the night. 

"What if Kincaid sent him?" Banks suggested. 

"Damnit, Simon, he didn't! Why don't you just _chill_ and hear him out!" Jim shouted, turning around swiftly. 

"No, YOU chill, Detective!" Simon returned sharply. "You're way out of line here with your comments." Standing up as well, the tall captain rounded his desk and towered in front of Ellison who didn't seem in the least intimidated by the threatening gesture. 

"All I ask is that you hear him out," Jim said a bit calmer. "Talk to him and let him convince you." 

* * *

The horizon started to burn in the east. After the storm, the first rays of a tentative morning sun blinked through the half-closed blinds in Simon's office. The captain sat at his desk, the Hawaiian brew in front of him forgotten and long cold. Reading silently, he sighed at last. Sandburg's signed statement seemed to come to life in his fingers, the words and lines running faster and faster until he came to the end. 

"This is really an impressive string of information, son," Simon commented. 

Putting down the papers he looked at the two sets of blue eyes watching him. Jim and Blair were sitting in front the desk. Blair was anxious, drumming on the armrest with his fingers. Jim had reached around to stop the nervous tic with a gentle squeeze of his hand. 

"Everything's in there is true," Blair stressed. "I was around when Garrett made his plans or talked to other members of the Sunrise Patriots. He never..., " the young man faltered a little. "He never thought I might use this against him." 

"This is evidence enough, sir," Jim spoke up. "I mean look at it, phone numbers, names, computer access code..." 

"I did some of the programming for him," Blair added. 

Simon nodded, silently reviewing the last few paragraphs. "It could be the brilliant cover-up of an innocent-looking, hard-boiled, skilled liar," he interjected, looking challengingly at Sandburg. 

"Oh, Simon, for crying out loud," Jim tiredly rubbed a hand over his face. 

"I don't lie," Blair said. Whereas the statement the captain had just read contained valid and privileged information about Kincaid and his people, the young man hadn't mentioned his prison ordeals. Now, accused of lying, Sandburg looked panic-stricken from Banks to Jim. "I didn't lie about this, Jim," he directed at the detective, fearing he'd change his mind and take Banks' side. 

"I know, Chief, I know," Jim touched Blair's arm briefly. 

//What makes you so sure, Ellison?// A tiny voice in his head questioned. //It is because you pity him? Or do you like the way he looks, does he make you horny? Do you want him for yourself?// 

//Shut up.// Jim admonished angrily, trying to ban the intrusive questions. 

"There's more than you've told me, isn't there?" Simon translated the body language between the two men. 

"Yes, Captain, there is," Jim nodded speaking before Blair got a chance to talk. He didn't want the kid to have to relive the humiliation and pain again so soon. "But, sorry, sir, it's personal and, right now, none of your business." 

"Excuse me?" Banks barked, his dark eyes daring Ellison to repeat what he'd just said. 

"I know it might be an issue when this case went to court but at the moment it won't add to the matter at hand," Jim explained, returning Banks' hard stare.   
"Use me as bait." 

The calm voice shook both men out of their heated confrontation. Simon turned his gaze on Sandburg, as did Jim. Disbelief and denial colored their features. Jim was the first to voice his complaints. 

"No way, Sandburg, it's too dangerous!" 

Blair shook his head. "You both want to get Kincaid, right? If you don't trust the information I gave you, let me be the one he comes for." Looking at Simon he continued, "Captain Banks, you're right when you say that Kincaid is crazy. He's also proud and I'm sure he's mad as hell right now that I got away. He will try and hunt me down." His gaze traveled to Jim. "Let's make it easy for him. If he does, you can arrest him." 

Jim nodded slowly, seeing reason behind Sandburg's words. "Yeah, and then we can tell the DA that you helped us, providing valuable information. Maybe we can convince the DA to give him immunity." He pointedly looked at Simon. "With that and the personal risks you're willing to take, it might work." 

Blair smiled a little. "I know it will." 

"It will be dangerous," Jim reminded him. "Simon? Do you think we can pull this off?" 

Searching his desk drawer for a cigar, Banks shook his head and stood up. "I don't like it, Jim." 

"Why not?" Blair inquired, exchanging another hopeful look with Jim. 

"Because!" Simon stepped closer, looming over the younger man and looking down at him. "...you are not a cop!" 

"Thank you, sir," Jim smiled. They'd won the battle. 

Chapter Twenty 

"Okay, now what?" Sandburg asked wearily. He followed Jim into the loft, hiding a big yawn behind his hand. It was still early morning, but the events of the last few days caught up with him. He yawned again. 

Seeing the exhaustion on the young man's face, Jim steered him towards the couch. "Now, you rest. You're dead on your feet." 

"I'm sorry," Blair mumbled as he heavily sat down on the couch. He leaned back and closed his eyes. "God, I'm tired. I can't remember ever been this tired. I used to grade exams at 4 in the morning and be up and running at 8 again." 

"Don't worry about it, Chief. You've been through a lot, physically and emotionally," Jim said. "Look, there's the afghan, and I'll have a couple of blankets and pillow upstairs..." 

Blair opened his eyes and groped for the afghan. "Great, thanks. Just... don't bother, I'll be fine." He bent down to take off his shoes. 

"Here you go," Jim returned with the promised items. 

Kicking off his shoes, Blair looked up. "Thank you." He smiled shyly. "Thanks, Jim," he repeated. 

"Don't sweat it," Jim replied, adding a smile of his own. While Blair snuggled into his makeshift bed, Jim cleared the living-room table. The mugs and plates they'd used last night went into the kitchen sink. 

"I'll help you," Blair offered, swinging his legs off the couch. 

"Stay put!" Jim pointed with his finger. 

The younger man froze in his tracks. "I--I just want to help," he said apologetically but didn't move from his spot. An ounce of fear swung in his voice. 

Jim sighed. "Yes, and I appreciate your help, Chief," he said softly, walking back into the living room. "Try to get some sleep, okay? It's just a couple of mugs." He took the discharged blanket. "Come on." When Blair slowly complied and stretched out on the couch, Jim covered him with the blanket, adding the afghan for additional warmth. 

"Thank you," Blair whispered, his expressive eyes shining with gratitude. "Thanks for letting me stay here." 

"Call it protective custody," Jim replied, plucking at the blanket. "Just let me know if you need anything, okay?" 

Blair nodded, his gaze following Jim back into the kitchen. 

"I'll try to be as quiet as possible," the detective promised. "Sleep now." 

* * *

Sandburg came awake with a sneeze when gentle rays of sunshine tickled his nose. Bolting upright he sneezed several times, rubbing his itching organ. Looking around in puzzlement at the unfamiliar environment, he remembered the last few hours. He was in the loft, at Detective Ellison's place, Jim's home. A sigh of relief escaped his lips and at the same time a blush crept into his face. He'd told Jim. Told him about his fear, the pain and humiliation, and about his arousal. God, what must the man think of him now? Blair shuddered, snuggling deeper into the cozy cocoon of blankets. 

Then he remembered the genuine smile of kindness, the gentle pat on his shoulder, the warm, compassionate blue eyes of the man who was so different from Kincaid. So caring. No, Jim didn't think any less of him after hearing his story. He'd said it was brave and Blair smiled at the praise. He was still afraid what might happen in the next few days, when Kincaid came back for him; if he came back for him. 

//Oh, he will.// Blair told himself. //But Jim will be there.// Yes, the detective would be there to protect him, to help him get his life back in order. Blair sighed again hoping Jim would slay a few dragons for him. 

"Jim?" Blair called, searching the apartment for his new-found ally. 

Ellison stood in the kitchen by the sink, apparently still doing the dishes. He'd turned his back on Blair, not acknowledging his call. 

"Jim? I thought it was just a couple of mugs, man," Blair said from his spot on the couch, contemplating if he should leave his warm nest to offer his help. Deciding to make himself useful, Blair threw the blankets away. Shivering at the sudden cold, he hugged himself and slowly made his way over to the kitchen. 

"Can I help?" he asked, frowning at the lack of response. 

Jim didn't react at all. Reaching the sink, Blair could see that the man's hands were in the water, seemingly cleaning. It was only their two mugs and two plates, not a mountain of dishes as Sandburg had feared. But what was wrong with Jim? He didn't move, didn't turn his head at Blair's questions. Like a statue he stared into the sink, his head cocked slightly to the side as if he was listening to something. 

"Hey, Jim," Blair tried again unsuccessfully. Touching Jim's arm gently, Blair was startled to find the muscles rigid with tension. Suddenly he remembered that he'd witness a similar scenario just a few days ago. In the bank when Jim had sort of spaced out at the touch of--, Blair shivered. McBride's hand on any part of his body would him make freak out, too. Jim had -- _zoned out_ on his sense of touch back then, a sensation so delicate that his tactile response had gone into overdrive. Blair's heart began to beat faster at the realization. His scientific mind raced to find a possible explanation for this time's elapse. 

"Can you hear me, Jim?" Blair spoke softly, his voice's timbre dropping until it was a soothing melody. "I don't know what you're concentrating on right now, big guy, but I want you to come back, okay?" 

It could be touch, it could be sound, it could be sight. Blair almost gasped at the discovery, not daring to imagine its implications. "Listen to my voice, Jim," he continued as he stroked Jim's am. "I'm here to bring you back. Everything's going to be okay. It's safe. Hear my voice, Jim." 

After a few minutes of gentle coaxing, Blair felt Jim's arm contract under his hands. "That's it, Jim, you're almost there. Come back now, you're doing great." Reaching down into the cold dish water, Blair found Jim's hand and took it into his. Squeezing carefully, he continued speaking. 

Suddenly a shudder surged through Jim's body as he finally emerged from his catatonic state. He sagged against Blair who pressed his weight against the heavy man. 

"It's okay, Jim, take it easy," Blair soothed, supporting Jim's boneless body as best as he could. 

Disoriented, Jim shook his head. He blinked rapidly, slowly recognizing his surroundings again. "W--what... what happened?" he murmured, squeezing the hand that held his. The water was ice-cold, shriveling the skin on his fingers. 

"Don't worry about it, Jim, you're okay now," Blair reassured, reaching for a dishtowel to dry both their hands. 

"It--- it happened again, didn't it?" Jim asked in a hoarse voice. "Oh my God!" he moaned, wiping a cold hand over his face. 

"Hey, it's okay, Jim. I can imagine that these episodes are pretty scary for you, but I think I know what's going on," Blair began, excitement coloring his voice. 

"You do?" Jim snapped, inhaling deeply. "What did you do, Sandburg, drug my coffee when I wasn't looking?" The look he threw into the other man's direction was hostile. 

"NO!" Blair protested, putting a reassuring hand on Jim's shoulder. "No, it's all perfectly natural, man." 

"I shudder to think what you consider natural, Sandburg. What was it, some natural weed you imported from South America?" 

Blair flinched at the verbal blow. "Please, man, don't..." 

Shrugging off the hand, Jim turned around. "Save it, Chief, I don't wanna hear another story of yours. Last night's was enough for one life time." He rushed to the front door, taking his jacket off the hook. 

"Jim! Listen to me," Blair pleaded, his eagerness to help Jim overwhelming the hurt he'd felt at Jim's cold words. 

"We need groceries," Jim announced. "There's a squad car outside watching the loft, so don't try anything, kid." With that he left, slamming the door and turning the lock. 

* * *

He was losing his mind. That, or maybe Sandburg had spiked his coffee with some drugs. The kid sure looked like it. Never trust a criminal, Ellison. First rule. They'd do anything to get under your skin, including drugs and heartbreaking sob stories. 

Jim slammed the driver's door of his truck, feeling no better at the physical force. He started the vehicle, steering it aimlessly in the general direction of downtown Cascade. 

Damnit. The kid was good. He'd known all along. Hell, Simon had told him, had warned him, but he wouldn't believe him. Lulled in by big blue puppy-dog eyes, Sandburg had managed to convince him he was all innocent, a poor victim, beaten and tortured in prison. 

Ellison grunted, applying the brakes at the traffic lights. How clever, how darn smart the kid was. He'd believed the tears, the quivering voice, the gruesome details of a story told to make him hide a criminal. 

//Fuck you, Sandburg.// Jim cursed. His truck howled protesting as he accelerated too fast. 

"You're going back to jail, you little slut," he mumbled. His fingers gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white with tension. "Great acting, Chief, just fabulous. You almost got me." Taking a curve a bit too fast, the tires squealed. 

"I bet you like to get it up your ass, don't you? Bet telling me your story turned you on, huh?" Still fuming Jim found a parking spot at the grocery store. "Did you come up with this yourself or did Kincaid help you? Did you fuck while spinning this tale?" 

Jim gasped for breath, his one-sided conversation gaining him no answers. Changing gears, Jim left the parking lot. He was going to get the answers. 

The kid and the terrorist. He'd known it from the start. 

Chapter Twenty-One 

It was happening again. Squeezing his eyes shut, Jim rested his head against the elevator wall. He pressed one hand against his left ear. The other hand gripped his gun vice-like, trying to bend metal to fight against the sound he couldn't be hearing. 

A storm raged inside his head. Thunder beat like a drum, making any conscious thought almost impossible. A thunder, he'd heard before. Recently, when checking on Sandburg, making sure he was sleeping okay. Trying to focus on his task, Jim inhaled deeply. He wasn't hearing things, it was impossible. He concentrated on the sound in his head, struggling to figure out its meaning. 

The thunder became a heartbeat. And without doubt, Ellison knew it belonged to Sandburg. The discovery startled him, even more than the frightening fact that he could actually hear the heartbeat. 

"Please stop it," he murmured, knocking his forehead against the wall. The elevator moved steadily, but the car's mechanical rumbling was nearly muted by the disturbing heartbeat. 

"Please stop it," he heard a voice repeating his plea. It's was Sandburg's voice, no doubt. Fear, almost bordering on panic, swung with each word. Before his brain could even try to understand what was going on, Jim picked up another voice, equally loud and clear as if the person stood right beside him. 

"One last time, what do you think?" Garrett Kincaid spoke. "For old-times sake?" 

The elevator came to a halt on the third floor. Carefully, Jim approached his apartment, gun aimed at door 307. Startling himself, he cocked his head to the side and... listened. 

* * *

Kincaid looked around the apartment, an appraising look on his face. "Nice place," he nodded, walking over to the couch and sitting down with a sigh. He put his feet on the table; the mud-covered boots smeared dirt on the wooden surface. 

"Come on, Garrett," Blair began, standing in the middle of the living room, still frozen in place at the sight of his former lover, showing up now, of all times. "Ellison isn't here at the moment. Go, before he comes back and arrests you." He moved a step forward. "Please go, man." Inside he felt his heart racing like a freight train. Part of him wanted Jim to come back, part of him hoped he wouldn't, fearing Kincaid would win the resulting match of powers. 

"Arrest me?" Kincaid laughed out loud, throwing one arm across the back of the couch. "I don't think so." 

"The building's being watched," Blair confessed, hoping to drive Kincaid away, but the terrorist made himself more comfortable on the couch. He looked relaxed, like an old friend coming by, if it wasn't for the gun lying in his lap. Blair knew Kincaid wouldn't hesitate to pull to trigger on Ellison or him. 

"What do you say we wait for your detective together, huh?" Kincaid suggested, patting the empty space beside him. 

"Garrett, I beg you, GO!" Blair tried again, not moving at all. 

"I love it when you beg," Kincaid grinned evilly. "Your eyes go all misty as if the world is about to go down on you." He chuckled. "Well, not the world, but..." he trailed off, laughing at his cruel pun. 

"Please, man..." Blair flinched as suddenly a hand on his back pushed him forward. His heart stopped a beat when McBride's voice hissed into his ear. "I thought you learned to obey orders, genius," the man said, shoving him forward until Sandburg stood in front of the couch. A last, painful push sent him towards Kincaid's seated form. Struggling to regain his balance, Blair tried to catch himself. In vain - only seconds later he landed on Kincaid. Before he could entangle his limbs, Kincaid's mouth closed over his! 

"Oh, I missed you, my man," Kincaid mumbled, while ravaging Blair's mouth. "You taste so damn good," Kincaid moaned. He leaned deeper into Blair, his mouth now fastened over Blair, sucking, kissing, and nibbling. 

Blair grunted as Kincaid forced his tongue inside. The agile organ pushed against his lips demanding entry. A sharp pain made Blair gasp and, seizing the moment, the searching tongue slipped inside. Bile rose in his throat. Saliva mixed with blood turned his stomach. Their tongues duelled, both fighting for dominance, Blair fighting to get Kincaid out of his mouth. 

Knowing in advance it would turn out to be a big mistake and that he'd regret his actions, Blair bit down hard. The taste of blood, Kincaid's this time, flooded his mind immediately. The outcry of pain followed a heartbeat later. 

"You son of a bitch!" Kincaid shouted, spitting blood into Blair's mouth. 

Momentarily free, Blair tried to scramble away, oblivious to the thought that there was no place to hide. To get away from Kincaid's claws was predominant in his mind. He had barely completed the thought when Kincaid grabbed his hair and pulled him back painfully. Eyes wide with terror Blair watched as Kincaid brought the gun up to his face. Expecting the blow, Sandburg tensed but it never came. 

Kincaid breathed heavily, gun ready to strike and shatter bones. Blood trickled from his lips where Blair had bit him. "You fucking little piece of shit," he hissed. "You seem to forget who's the one who saved your sorry little ass, forget to whom you belong." He brought the gun down close to Blair's face. In mock caress he stroked it over a cheek. "Maybe I have to refresh your memory. McBride!" 

"Sir?" 

"I think our little obedience has worn off" Kincaid addressed his companion while staring into Blair's face. 

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," McBride replied. "He always had a streak of a rebel." 

"Oh, I know, I know," Kincaid smiled at the flash of fear he could see on Blair's face. "On the other hand, don't you think he managed the lesson of loyalty graciously?" 

"Not bad, sir, considering this last flaw," McBride commented. 

"Yeahhhh," Kincaid drawled, the gun stressing each letter. "Patience, endurance and loyalty, I know about your tests back in Starksville. As a matter of fact...," he placed a bloody kiss on Blair's mouth. "...I let McBride conduct the Patience and Endurance exam but decided to conduct the test of Loyalty myself." Another short kiss emphasized his words. "And you passed it with flying colours, my man!" 

"You bastard!" Blair spat, trying to sit up, but Kincaid held him firmly in place. "I believed you, I trusted you! I thought you cared about me... " Realization set in. "Oh, I'm such a fucking idiot. I fell for it, I fell for all of it!" The discovery sent a chill down his spine. He'd been Kincaid's whore all along, doing whatever the man asked of him, degrading himself in the name of love that was never ever mutual. His Blessed Protector never existed. 

"But a good one, kiddo, don't sell yourself cheap," Kincaid comforted mockingly. "Do you know what really sad is?" At Blair's silence, the older man continued: "You sold yourself for... nothing! Nobody's going to believe that you didn't do anything. Just hanging around as the infamous fifth wheel. Not that you would've been able to do anything valuable for our cause... you're not cut out for it." He chuckled. "And you'll go back to prison for that. I wonder what adventures will be in store for you there." 

"If I go down, I'll take you with me, Kincaid!" Blair spoke, his rage overpowering his fear. He struggled unsuccessfully, but his eyes threw fire. 

"Oh, don't say that, kiddo, after all, we did have a good time, didn't we?" Kincaid let go of the tight grip he'd had on Sandburg's hair, trailing down the expressive face and ignoring the younger man's squirming. 

"McBride!" he shouted, never taking his eyes off Blair. His hand roamed over the exposed throat, squeezing slightly, almost threatening. 

"Sir?" 

"Contact the base, tell them we'll be there at sixteen hundred hours," Kincaid ordered. His hand disappeared under Blair's shirt. "And leave us alone for a moment." 

"Sir?" 

"Damnit, McBride!" Kincaid hissed, looking over his shoulder briefly. "I don't like an audience when I fuck. Go into the bathroom or something." 

"Yes, sir!" McBride replied shortly, retreating. A few mumbled words confirmed that he was on a radio following his leader's orders. 

Kincaid spread out on top of Blair, his hand exploring warm skin, finding hardening nipples. "Yeeeessss, you like this, don't you?" He tweaked the little nubs and pushed up Blair's shirt. 

"Please, stop it...," Blair pleaded, arching his back against Kincaid's weight. 

"One last time, what do you think?" Garrett Kincaid spoke. "For old-times sake?" He descended, licking the inviting peaks. 

Blair shuddered at the unwanted touch. "Noooo," he moaned, closing his eyes as his body began to respond to the stimulation. "God, please, don't... Garrett..." 

"It's too late for you, kid," Kincaid almost purred while bathing Blair's chest, teasing and rewarding the nipples. "You're nothing more than a little whore who pays me back for saving your life." 

"You never saved my life," Blair protested. He tensed, again trying to get away as probing fingers slid into his pants. 

"I'm your Blessed Protector," Kincaid reminded him. 

"Fuck you, Kincaid, you're nothing more than a murderer and a terrorist," Blair shouted, hoping his rage would fight off any arousal. 

"Yes, I am, and you're my Blessed Toy," Kincaid laughed insanely, giving Blair's cock an expert squeeze. He dove for another kiss, enjoying the struggle his young captive put on. 

The front door crashed open. Like a dervish, Jim Ellison burst into the loft, gun drawn and immediately aimed. "Cascade PD!" he yelled at Kincaid. "Put your hands where I can see them!" 

"Our favourite negotiator," Kincaid spoke, his body still covering Blair's, his hand still massaging, bringing the young man to arousal. "Nice of you to join us." He'd never waste a look into Jim's direction. 

"I said put your hands in the air," Ellison ordered again. 

"My hands are occupied, Detective," Kincaid replied, almost bored. "If you'd leave us alone, it'll be much appreciated." 

Blair moaned. Kincaid's hand worked his cock like Ellison's appearance belonged to the script. And maybe it did. Turning his head to the side to look at Jim's set-in stone face, Blair winced. The cold metal of a gun met his temple. 

Jim noticed the gun in Kincaid's other hand at the same time. Aimed at Blair's head, the terrorist's index finger curled around the trigger. Blair's eyes looked at him, reflecting fear and yet trust. 

"Put the gun down, Kincaid!" Jim didn't move, his back to the open door leading into the hallway. "You have nowhere to go, cops have surrounded the building." 

"Jim..." Blair began but Kincaid silenced him with another violent kiss. "Take it easy, Chief, everything's gonna be fine," Jim promised, his stomach knotting in disgust at the false display of affection. 

Breaking the kiss, Kincaid looked over his shoulder. "Do you know that he's a great fuck?" he haunted, bumping his hips against Blair. "Have you ever tried him?" 

Jim saw Blair's lips moving, now that Kincaid's attention was temporarily focussed on him. Straining to read the words, the detective almost flinched in surprise when the motions became audible sounds. 

"...Jim, McBride's in the bathroom. Careful..." 

Ellison acknowledged he had heard Blair's almost silent words with a minute nod, his eyes becoming blue steel. It took him a moment to realize that Kincaid had started speaking again. 

"... great..., what a way to go, don't you think?" 

"Kincaid, put the gun down and get UP," Jim demanded again. 

"Oh, he's definitely up," Kincaid observed, raising his body slightly so that Blair's straining erection became visible. "Gorgeous, isn't he?" With that, the terrorist applied pressure to the trigger. 

Jim saw it, Jim heard it. His logical mind did not understand why he was able to hear the unmistakable sound of the gun or why he could actually see the slight muscle tremor as Kincaid intended to shoot. Instincts took over. Razorsharp senses kicked in, given to him from the day he was born and sharpened in the jungles of Peru. 

Focussing, the Sentinel fired his own gun. He watched the bullet leaving the barrel, traveling through the air at lightening speed. Milliseconds later, Kincaid's body collapsed, a statement of utter disbelief frozen on his features forever. Blood tickled down his forehead where the projectile had entered, cross-circuiting his brain before he had time to pull the trigger. The gun slid from his lifeless hands. 

Jim listened. 

Car doors slammed outside, racing feet entered the building. Hands hit the elevator button, while more feet went for the stairs. Sirens played in the distance. Sandburg's heartbeat echoed through the loft, as did another one, approaching behind him. 

In a swift motion, Jim whirled around. McBride's gun loomed in front of him, the black hole of the barrel greeting him with deadly accuracy. 

"See ya in hell, Ellison," McBride wished. 

Blair shouted something. 

The gun exploded. 

Then it was over. 

Silence. 

Chapter Twenty-Two 

Silence. 

The few days he'd stayed here, Blair had never noticed how quiet the loft could be. The traffic down on Prospect Ave seemed so far away, no car horns blaring, no sirens. Quiet. And the view from the balcony on the bay was nothing short of spectacular. But peacefully so. 

//What an odd couple.// Blair thought while staring at the sailing boots. //How can something be spectacular and peaceful all the same?// 

Maybe the place seemed so peaceful and quiet to him because his heart had finally ceased racing. It still ached for another reason but the sheer terror was gone. A weight had finally been lifted off his chest, making breathing suddenly remarkably easy. 

Kincaid was dead. 

"Kincaid's dead," Blair spoke to the empty loft, assuring himself of the fact by speaking the words out loud. 

"And he cannot hurt you anymore," a gentle voice said from the door. 

Startled, Blair turned around but calmed down when he saw Jim Ellison closing the front door and shrugging off his jacket. 

"I didn't hear you," Blair confessed, his eyes carefully surveying the detective. He didn't dare to ask, he didn't want to hear it. He just wanted to stay where he was enjoying the spectacular peace around him. 

Jim smiled. "Which reminds me of something." Walking over to join Blair looking down at the bay, Jim's gaze traveled from the scenery to the young man. 

"How are your senses?" Blair asked, knowing this was not what Ellison wanted to talk about. 

"My senses?" Jim repeated. "I don't understand..." 

"As a detective you must be a good shooter, but that doesn't explain the deadly accuracy with which you handled Garr-, uh, Kincaid," Blair explained slowly. "Given all odds one shot might be possible but not the second one. McBride must be pretty pissed that your actually shot INTO the barrel of his gun." Shaking his head, Blair let his voice trail off, giving Jim an opportunity to jump in. 

"Yeah, he's not a happy camper right now," Jim nodded. "With Kincaid dead he doesn't have an idol to look up to anymore. He's wet his pants more than once, begging the DA to make a deal." 

A shiver ran through Blair's body. "Is the DA going to go for it?" he asked in a low voice. 

"Probably not." Jim went silent for a moment. "Your statement and blowing up 'the base' helped a great deal. The Feds arrested many members of the Sunrise Patriots, including your buddies Morse and Fletcher." 

"They're not my buddies!" The tremor in Blair's voice was clearly audible. Jim put a gentle hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Sorry, Chief, I didn't mean it the way it sounded." 

"Forget about it." Blair shrugged off the hand. "I know it's probably hard to see them with out me." 

"I didn't mean it," Jim stressed. "Simon talked to the DA," he added, hoping to distract Sandburg. 

"And?" Blair looked at him with fearful eyes, his heart starting beat rapidly again. Gone was the peace. "What did he say?" Swallowing hard he watched Jim's eyes going out to the bay again, avoiding his gaze. "It's finally up to the Judge but the DA is going to request a short sentence. Maybe 11 months..." 

"11 months?" Blair gasped. He had never really thought that he'd come out of this mess in one piece, but the thought of eleven hellish months back in prison made his blood run cold. He regained his composure quickly. Jim and his captain had done so much for him that he mustn't be ungrateful. 

Jim shrugged. "Yeah, 11 months of social work, maybe at a kindergarten or pre-school. Simon reminded the DA that you were a teacher." He smiled seeing Blair's disbelief. 

"You're kidding, right?" Blair put his questioning look into words. "M--my sentence will be teaching kindergarten kids?" 

"It's not carved in stone yet, Chief," Jim tried to sound casual, knowing fullwell that Banks had pulled many strings and asked in even more favors. "'sides, I bet those kids will be HELL, did you see that Schwarzenegger movie?" 

Blair stared open-mouthed at Ellison. "I'm... I'm an anthropologist. I've worked at Rainier... " 

"Yeah, I know," Jim nodded, trying to suppress his smile. 

"Oh, man," Blair swallowed, fighting against the sudden restriction in his throat. He turned around quickly to hide his emotions. 

"Chief?" 

"Sorry, Jim," Blair choked, his shoulders shaking. 

"I know this must be some shock for you," Jim said slowly. He wasn't used to talking like this. Hell, in the last few days he'd offered more comforting words that he'd ever spoken in his life. He wasn't a talker, he'd rather let his actions speak for him. Thus, Ellison reached out and touched Blair's back tentatively. "Hey, be happy," he nudged him gently. 

"I--I'm happy," Blair managed between tears. "This is so - unbelievable. I never dared to hope this would be possible." Sniffling, he cast a quick glance at the bigger man. "Jim? Would you--I mean, I know we are not... friends or anything... but c-could you just hold me ...for a little while?" Blair whispered. "I'm right here, buddy," Jim reassured, fighting some emotions of his own as he pulled Blair into a tight hug. Rubbing the back, the detective looked down at the bay, seeing its beauty for the first time. 

"Jim?" Blair's voice was muffled. "There's - there's something I have to tell you, something.. bad." 

Jim frowned at the new tremor in Blair's voice. "What is it, Chief?" He tightened his hold on Blair, trying to reassure him physically that, whatever Blair wanted to tell him, wouldn't change their new-born friendship. 

"I owe you so much," Blair sniffled, his face still buried in Jim's chest. "You're gonna hate me." 

"I'm not going to hate you, Blair," Jim assured. "Nothing can make me hate you," he confessed, a bit startled by his words, but they felt so right. 

"You will," Blair stated, enjoying the protective embrace a little while longer. He knew as soon as Jim heard the truth, he wouldn't be welcomed anymore. Sighing Blair tried to snuggle impossibly deeper into the warm hug. He'd be lucky if Jim didn't - 

"Whatever it is you can tell me," the detective encouraged. 

Blair took a deep breath. "In the bank..," he began, stepping backwards to look into Jim's eyes. The Sentinel returned his pained gaze calmly. "In the bank - when you left and Kincaid shot you.. _I_ pulled the trigger, not Kincaid." 

"Why?" Jim's expression didn't change, his question filled with genuine interest rather than hate. 

Blair wiped his eyes. "Kincaid planned to kill you when you came back. I heard him talking to M--McBride, he wanted you to suffer, he laughed as he promised to make you see who was the winner, I knew he'd do it a-and I had to make sure you wouldn't be able to come back inside. I didn't know what else to do, I mean you're a cop and your first priority is to save people. You would've come back even if I warned you. So..I t--took his gun and shot at you." The words rushed out of him, leaving him breathless. "I'm so sorry, man. I know it's lame to apologize but.. please believe me that I never wanted to hurt you, I just didn't want you to die." Tears ran down his face. 

"I know," Jim finally said. "I--heard your heartbeat speeding up a moment before -" He shook his head in strange amazement. 

At other times Blair would have been excited by Jim's admission but he just managed a small, sad smile. "I guess the DA's deal's off now," he sighed, shivering at the cold that suddenly crept into his body. At the same time he felt an indescribable feeling of relief. He couldn't have lived with a lie. No matter how much he liked the detective, Ellison deserved to know the truth. 

"If you...," Blair took another deep breath. "I know I can't ask for favors anymore but - could you take me down to the station instead of having someone come get me? I'd rather have you..," he trailed off. 

Jim swallowed. He needed time to digest what he'd just heard, but one thing was clear in his mind. "I told you the other night that I thought you were very smart." He couldn't hate Sandburg. 

"Yes," the young man whispered. 

"I still do," Jim said, his eyes smiling. 

* * *

Through the window blinds Blair could see the moon. He sighed. It was close to midnight and Jim had already gone upstairs to sleep. They'd talked, talked about everything. Everything and nothing. 

It had surprised him that Jim took the news so well that it was he, Sandburg, who'd shot him. After all Ellison didn't strike him to be a man who forgave easily. So, where was the catch? Blair sighed again. 

Jim was a Sentinel. Blessed, or cursed as Jim said, with five-heightened senses, the detective was the fulfillment of a long-lived, long-forgotten dream. Blair smiled sadly as he remembered launching his infamous "in all tribal cultures, every village had a Sentinel" speech. And Jim had listened carefully, not really buying every word Blair said but yet enough to believe he had this so-called gift. The man was understandably afraid, especially after the strange episodes, zone-outs, had happened to him. However, Blair promised to help him. After all, this was the old topic of his dissertation. Maybe he could talk Jim into some tests? 

God, Jim was perfect. A police officer, protecting the law and the citizens just like the Sentinels did. One of the good guys. A sigh, close to a moan this time, escaped Blair's lips as his hands reached into his pants, touching himself. 

Jim, perfect Sentinel... imagining the shining, incredible blue eyes, the strong jaw, the pleasant voice, Blair began to massage his cock. He tried to be as quiet as possible. Throwing his head back as he began to harden, he closed his eyes and pictured Jim's hands on his body. Sentinel senses investigated his body, fingertips caressing his lips, his nipples and finally his genitals. How would it feel to be touched a Sentinel? Blair turned his head into the pillow to muffle his moans. Pumping his straining member, the young man opened his eyes again to search for the moon. 

It was still there, as was Jim. 

"Jim!" Blair almost shouted, letting go of his cock. 

"Hey," Jim smiled, the moonlight illuminating his gentle expression. In the darkness the blue eyes seemed to sparkle. 

"I didn't mean to wake you." Blair hoped the darkness would hide his blush and his erection. 

Coming closer to the couch, Jim shook his head. "Don't worry about. I wasn't asleep." Sitting down on the edge of the couch, he confessed: "I was listening to you." 

"You--? Oh. Sorry, man," Blair apologized, pulling up his knees. His erection throbbed relentlessly. 

"Are you finished?" 

"W-hat?" Blair looked at Jim with large eyes, wondering if the man was mocking him. Seeing just genuine concern, he shook his head. His mouth was suddenly too dry to speak. 

"Mind if I join?" 

Blair found his tongue. "Why?" Despite his arousal, he needed an answer. 

"Why what?" 

"Why are you doing this?" Blair clarified. The darkness engulfed him like a cozy blanket, however, the fact that Jim might be able to see him as clear as in day light startled him. "I don't want another deal, you know?" 

The blue eyes stared at him full of regret. "I--I'm sorry, Chief. I didn't think," Jim said. "I'd never make such a demand on you." As he began to rise, Blair grabbed his hand. 

"Then why did you come down?" The young man demanded. 

"I don't know," Jim's voice spoke through the darkness. "I wanted to be close to you, I wanted to see you." 

Pulling Jim down to the couch again, Blair lifted the blanket. "Can you see me?" Blair asked in a hushed voice, knowing his genitals were now fully exposed to Jim. 

"Yes, I see you," Jim breathed. "You're gorgeous," he added. 

Blair actually chuckled at the praise. "Never heard that one before." He took Jim's hand and guided it on his cock. 

"May I?" Jim asked, almost incredulously. His fingertips touched the pulsating organ and both men gasped at the sensation. 

Blair nodded. Too sweet was the agony that ran through his body. It had been a long time since he'd been touched with love. Tears burnt in his eyes at the thought of the things he'd lost. Then he moaned when Jim began squeezing his cock. 

"Sssshhhhh, relax and enjoy the ride," Jim whispered, running his fingers up and down the strong shaft. 

"I can't ....", Blair sighed, arching his back to thrust his cock deeper into Jim's capable hands. Much to his frustration, Jim suddenly stilled his motions. Remembering the painful ordeal Kincaid had put him through every time they'd made love, Blair almost sobbed in despair. This wasn't happening! Not with Jim... he - 

"Easy, Chief, try to relax, I'm not going to hurt you," Jim soothed, misunderstanding the sudden tension knotting Blair's body. He picked up his slow stroking, running his fingers around Blair's cock down to his balls. 

"P-pplease don't stop," Blair pleaded in a low voice, squeezing his eyes shut in fear the joyride would be over in a moment. 

"Enjoy..." 

Rolling the delicate balls between his fingers, Jim brushed his free hand over Blair's hair. "Do you like how this feels?" 

Blair nodded, unable to utter a coherent word. His breath came in harsh gasps and he sensed his fast approaching orgasm. He'd never felt anything like it. Still fearing Jim's delicate ministrations could stop in the blink of an eye, making him ache and lonely all over again, he concentrated. The massaging hand gently stopped to tease the tip of his cock, only to ran down its length again to pump some more. 

"You're doing great, buddy," Jim breathed. Sensing the impending climax, he bent forward to claim Blair's mouth in a feather-light kiss. As their lips touched, the fire inside Blair ignited. His balls tightened and with a muffled cry he came, bathing Jim's hand with his hot seed. 

Fastening a hand around Jim's neck, Blair pulled him closer. "Jim...," Blair panted, still captured by the aftermath of his orgasm. 

"I'm here, Chief," Jim reassured, while stroking the silky curls. 

"Don't let go," Blair whispered. He squeezed his eyes shut tight to trap the threatening tears side. 

"I won't." 

And he didn't. 

The End 

* * *

End The Negotiator by Montserrat: montserat@onlinehome.de

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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